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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Reinhard  S.  Speck  Collection 

of 

Harriet  Martineau 


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I 


1861.] 


Health  in  the  Camp, 


571 


"  My  son,"  said  Father  Francesco,  ris- 
ing up  with  an  air  of  authority,  "  you  do 
not  undoi-stand,  —  there  is  nothing  in  you 
by  which  you  should  understand.  This 
unhappy  brother  hath  opened  his  case  to 
me,  and  I  have  counselled  him  all  I  know 
of  prayer  and  fastings  and  watchings  and 
mortifications.  Let  him  persevere  in  the 
same ;  and  if  all  these  fail,  the  good  Lord 
will  send  the  other  in  His  own  time.  There 
is  an  end  to  all  things  in  this  life,  and  that 
end  shall  certainly  come  at  last.  Bid  him 
persevere  and  hope  in  this.  —  And  now, 
brother,"  added  the  Superior,  with  digni- 


ty, "  if  you  have  no  other  query,  time  flies 
and  eternity  comes  on,  —  go,  watch  and 
pray,  and  leave  me  to  my  prayers  also." 

He  raised  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of 
benediction,  and  Father  Johannes,  awed 
in  spite  of  himself,  felt  impelled  to  leave 
the  apartment. 

"  Is  it  so,  or  is  it  not  ?  "  he  said.  "  I 
cannot  tell.  He  did  seem  to  wince  and 
turn  away  his  head  when  I  proposed  the 
case ;  but  then  he  made  fight  at  last.  I 
cannot  tell  whether  I  have  got  any  ad- 
vantage or  not;  but  patience!  we  shall 

RP.P.  ! " 


HEALTH  IN  THE   CAMP. 


All  the  world  has  heard  a  great  deal 
of  the  sufferings  and  mortality  of  the 
English  and  French  armies  in  the  late 
Russian  war ;  and  in  most  countries  the 
story  has  been  heard  to  some  purpose. 
Reforms  and  new  methods  have  been  in- 
stituted in  almost  every  country  in  Eu- 
rope, —  so  strong  has  been  the  effect  of 
the  mere  outline  of  the  case,  which  is  all 
that  has  been  furnished  to  the  public. 
The  broad  facts  of  the  singular  mortality 
first,  and  the  singular  healthfulness  of  the 
British  army  afterwards,  on  the  same 
spot  and  under  the  same  military  cir- 
cumstances as  before,  have  interested  all 
rulers  of  armies,  and  brought  about  great 
benefits  to  the  soldier,  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  Europe.  Within 
these  broad  outlines  there  was  a  multi- 
tude of  details  which  were  never  record- 
ed in  a  systematic  way,  or  which,  for 
good  and  suflicient  reasons,  could  not  be 
made  public  at  the  time  ;  and  these  de- 
tails are  the  part  of  the  story  most  inter- 
esting to  soldiers  actually  in  the  field  or 
likely  to  be  called  there  soon.  They  are 
also  deeply  interesting  to  every  order  of 
persons  concerned  in  a  civil  war;  for 
such  a  war  summons  forth  a  citizen  sol- 
diery to  form  a  system  for  themselves  in 


regard  to  the  life  of  the  march  and  the 
camp,  and  to  do  the  best  they  can  for 
that  life  and  health  which  they  have  de- 
voted to  their  country.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances it  cannot  but  be  interesting 
to  the  patriots  in  the  camp  and  to  their 
families  at  home  to  know  some  facts  which 
they  cannot  have  heard  before  of  the 
mistakes  made  at  the  beginning  of  the 
last  Russian  war,  and  the  repair  of  those 
mistakes  before  the  end  of  it.  The  prompt 
and  anxious  care  exercised  by  the  Amer- 
ican Sanitary  Commission,  and  the  be- 
nevolent diligence  bestowed  on  the  or- 
ganization of  hospitals  for  the  Federal 
forces,  show  that  the  lesson  of  the  Crimean 
campaign  has  been  studied  in  the  United 
States ;  and  this  is  an  encouragement  to 
afford  further  illustrations  of  the  case, 
when  new  material  is  at  command. 

I  am  thinking  most  of  the  volunteer 
forces  at  this  moment,  for  the  obvious 
reason  that  their  health  is  in  greater  dan- 
ger than  that  of  the  professional  soldier. 
The  regular  troops  live  under  a  system 
which  is  always  at  work  to  feed,  clothe, 
lodge,  and  entertain  them:  whereas  the 
volunteers  are  quitting  one  mode  of  life 
for  another,  all  the  circumstances  of 
which  had  to  be  created  at  the  shortest 


572 


Health  in  the   Camp. 


[November, 


notice.  To  them  their  first  campaign  must 
be  very  like  what  it  was  to  British  soldiers 
who  had  never  seen  war  to  be  sent  to 
Turkey  first,  and  then  to  the  Crimea,  to 
live  a  new  kind  of  life,  and  meet  discom- 
forts and  dangers  which  they  had  never 
dreamed  of.  I  shall  therefore  select  my 
details  with  a  view  to  the  volunteers  and 
their  friends  in  the  first  place. 

The  enthusiasm  which  started  the  vol- 
unteers of  every  Northern  State  on  their 
new  path  of  duty  could  hardly  exceed 
that  by  which  the  British  troops  were 
escorted  from  their  barrack-gates  to  the 
margin  of  the  sea.  The  war  was  univer- 
sally approved  (except  by  a  chque  of 
peace-men)  ;  and  there  was  a  universal 
confidence  that  the  troops  would  do  their 
duty  well,  though  not  one  man  in  a  thou- 
sand of  them  had  ever  seen  war.  As 
they  marched  down  to  their  ships,  in  the 
best  mood,  and  with  every  appearance 
of  health  and  spirit,  nobody  formed  any 
conception  of  what  would  happen.  Par- 
liament had  fulfilled  the  wishes  of  the 
people  by  voting  liberal  sums  for  the 
due  support  of  the  troops ;  the  Adminis- 
tration desired  and  ordered  that  every- 
thing should  be  done  for  the  soldier's 
welfare ;  and  as  far  as  orders  and  ar- 
rangements went,  the  scheme  was  thor- 
oughly well  intended  and  generous.  Who 
could  anticipate,  that,  while  the  enemy 
never  once  gained  a  battle  or  obtain- 
ed an  advantage  over  British  or  French, 
two-thirds  of  that  fine  stout  British  force 
would  perish  in  a  few  months  ?  Of  the 
twenty-five  thousand  who  went  out,  eigh- 
teen thousand  were  dead  in  a  year  ;  and 
the  enemy  was  answerable  for  a  very 
small  proportion  of  those  deaths.  Before 
me  lie  the  returns  of  six  months  of  those 
twelve,  showing  the  fate  of  the  troops  for 
that  time  ;  and  it  furnishes  the  key  to  the 
whole  story. 

In  those  six  months,  the  admissions  in- 
to hospital  in  the  Crimea  (exclusive  of 
the  Scutari  Hospital)  were  52,548.  The 
number  shows  that  many  must  have  en- 
tered the  hospitals  more  than  once,  as 
well  as  that  the  place  of  the  dead  was 
iupplied  by  new  comers  from  England. 


Of  these,  nearly  fifty  thousand  were  ab- 
solutely untouched  by  the  Russians.  On- 
ly 3,806  of  the  whole  number  were  wound- 
ed. Even  this  is  not  the  most  striking 
circumstance.  It  is  more  impressive  that 
three-fourths  of  the  sick  sufiered  unne- 
cessarily. Seventy-five  per  cent,  of  them 
sufiered  from  preventable  diseases.  That 
is,  the  naturally  sick  were  12,563  ;  while 
the  needlessly  sick  were  36,179.  When 
we  look  at  the  deaths  from  this  number, 
the  case  appears  still  more  striking.  The 
deaths  were  5,359 ;  and  of  these  scarcely 
more  than  the  odd  hundreds  were  from 
wounds,  —  that  is,  373.  Of  the  remain- 
der, little  more  than  one-tenth  were  un- 
avoidable deaths.  The  natural  deaths, 
as  we  may  call  them,  were  only  521 ; 
while  the  preventable  deaths  were  4,465. 
Very  different  would  have  been  the  spir- 
it of  the  parting  in  England,  if  the  sol- 
diers' friends  had  imagined  that  so  small 
a  number  would  fall  by  Russian  gun  or 
bayonet,  or  by  natural  sickness,  while  the 
mortality  from  mismanagement  would  at 
one  season  of  the  next  year  exceed  that 
of  London  in  the  worst  days  of  the  Great 
Plague. 

That  the  case  was  really  what  is  here 
represented  was  proved  by  the  actual 
prevention  of  this  needless  sickness  dur- 
ing the  last  year  of  the  war.  In  the  same 
camp,  and  under  the  same  circumstances 
of  warfare,  the  mortality  was  reduced,  by 
good  management,  to  a  degree  unhoped 
for  by  all  but  those  who  achieved  it. 
The  deaths  for  the  last  half  year  were 
one-third  fewer  than  at  home  !  And  yet 
the  army  that  died  was  composed  of  fine, 
well-trained  troops  ;  while  the  army  that 
lived  and  flourished  was  of  a  far  inferior 
material  when  it  came  out,  —  raw,  un- 
travelled,  and  unhardened  to  the  milita- 
ry life. 

How  did  these  things  happen  ?  There 
can  be  no  more  important  question  for 
Americans  at  this  time. 

I  will  not  go  into  the  history  of  the 
weaknesses  and  faults  of  the  administra- 
tion of  departments  at  home.  They  have 
been  abundantly  published  already ;  and 
we  may  hope  that  they  bear  no  relation 


1861.] 


Health  in  the   Gamp. 


573 


to  the  American  case.  It  is  more  inter- 
esting to  look  into  the  circumstances  of 
the  march  and  the  camp,  for  illustration 
of  what  makes  the  health  or  the  sickness 
of  the  soldier. 

Wherever  the  men  were  to  provide 
themselves  with  anything  to  eat  or  to 
wear  out  of  their  pay,  they  were  found 
to  suffer.  There  is  no  natural  market, 
with  fair  prices,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
warfare ;  and,  on  the  one  hand,  a  man 
cannot  often  get  what  he  wishes,  and, 
on  the  other,  he  is  tempted  to  buy  some- 
thing not  so  good  for  him.  If  there  are 
commissariat  stores  opened,  there  is  an 
endless  accumulation  of  business,  —  a 
mass  of  accounts  to  keep  of  the  stop- 
pages from  the  men's  pay.  On  all  ac- 
counts it  is  found  better  for  all  parties 
that  the  wants  of  the  soldier  should  be 
altogether  supplied  in  the  form  of  rations 
of  varied  food  and  drink,  and  of  clothing 
varying  with  climate  and  season. 

In  regard  to  food,  which  comes  first  in 
importance  of  the  five  heads  of  the  sol- 
dier's wants,  the  English  soldier  was  re- 
markably helpless  till  he  learned  better. 
The  Russians  cut  that  matter  very  short. 
Every  man  carried  a  certain  portion  of 
black  rye  bread  and  some  spirit.  No 
cooking  was  required,  and  the  men  were 
very  independent.  But  the  diet  is  bad ; 
and  the  Russian  regiments  were  compos- 
ed of  sallow-faced  men,  who  died  "  like 
flies"  under  frequently  recurring  epi- 
demics. The  Turks  were  in  their  own 
country,  and  used  their  accustomed  diet. 
The  French  are  the  most  apt,  the  most 
practised,  and  the  most  economical  man- 
agers of  food  of  any  of  the  parties  engag- 
ed in  the  war.  Their  campaigns  in  Al- 
geria had  taught  them  how  to  help  them- 
selves; and  they  could  obtain  a  decent 
meal  where  an  Englishman  would  have 
eaten  nothing,  or  something  utterly  un- 
wholesome. The  Sardinians  came  next, 
and  it  was  edifying  to  see  how  they  could 
build  a  fire-place  and  obtain  a  fire  in  a 
few  minutes  to  boil  their  pot.  In  other 
ways  both  French  and  Sardinians  suffer- 
ed miserably  when  the  British  had  sur- 
mounted their  misfortunes.     The  mortal- 


ity from  cholera  and  dysentery  in  the 
French  force,  during  the  last  year,  was 
uncalculated  and  unreported.  It  was  so 
excessive  as,  in  fact,  to  close  the  war  too 
soon.  The  Sardinians  were  ravaged  by 
disease  from  their  huts  being  made  part- 
ly under  ground.  But,  so  far  as  the  prep- 
aration of  their  food  went,  both  had  the 
advantage  of  the  British,  in  a  way  which 
will  never  happen  again.  I  believe  the 
Americans  and  the  English  are  bad  cooks 
in  about  the  same  degree ;  and  the  warn- 
ing afforded  by  the  one  may  be  accepted 
by  the  other. 

At  the  end  of  a  day,  in  Bulgaria  or 
the  Crimea,  what  happened  was  this. 

The  soldiers  who  did  not  understand 
cooking  or  messing  had  to  satisfy  their 
hunger  any  way  they  could.  They  were 
so  exhausted  that  they  were  sure  to  drink 
up  their  allowance  of  grog  the  first  mo- 
ment they  could  lay  hands  on  it.  Then 
there  was  hard  biscuit,  a  lump  of  very 
salt  pork  or  beef,  as  hard  as  a  board,  and 
some  coffee,  raw.  Those  who  had  no 
touch  of  scurvy  (and  they  were  few) 
munched  their  biscuit  while  they  poked 
about  everywhere  with  a  knife,  digging 
up  roots  or  cutting  green  wood  to  make 
a  fire.  Each  made  a  hole  in  the  ground, 
unless  there  was  a  bank  or  great  stone  at 
hand,  and  there  he  tried,  for  one  half- 
hour  after  another,  to  kindle  a  fire.  When 
he  got  up  a  flame,  there  was  his  salt  meat 
to  cook:  it  ought  to  have  been  soaked 
and  stewed  for  hours ;  but  he  could  not 
wait;  and  he  pulled  it  to  pieces,  and 
gnawed  what  he  could  of  it,  when  it  was 
barely  warm.  Then  he  had  to  roast  his 
coffee,  which  he  did  in  the  lid  of  his  camp- 
kettle,  burning  it  black,  and  breaking  it 
as  small  as  he  could,  with  stones  or  any- 
how. Such  coffee  as  it  would  make  could 
hardly  be  worth  the  trouble.  It  was  call- 
ed by  one  of  the  doctors  charcoal  and  wa- 
ter. Such  a  supper  could  not  fit  a  man 
for  outpost  duty  for  the  night,  nor  give 
him  good  sleep  after  the  toils  of  the  day. 

The  Sardinians,  meantime,  united  in 
companies,  some  members  of  which  were 
usually  on  the  spot  to  prepare  supper  for 
the  rest.    They  knew  how  to  look  for  or 


574 


Health  in  the   Camp. 


[November, 


provide  a  shelter  for  their  fire,  if  only  a 
foot  high ;  and  how  to  cut  three  or  four 
little  trenches,  converging  at  the  fire,  so 
as  to  afford  a  good  draught  which  would 
kindle  even  bad  fuel.  They  had  good 
stews  and  porridge  and  coffee  ready 
when  wanted.  The  French  always  had 
fresh  bread.  They  carried  portable  ovens 
and  good  bakers.  The  British  had  flour, 
after  a  time,  but  they  did  not  know  how 
to  make  bread  ;  and  if  men  volunteered 
for  the  ofiice,  day  after  day,  it  usually 
turned  out  that  they  had  a  mind  for  a 
holiday,  and  knew  nothing  of  baking; 
and  their  bread  came  out  of  the  oven  too 
heavy,  or  sour,  or  sticky,  or  burnt,  to  be 
eaten.  As  scurvy  spread  and  deepened, 
the  doctors  made  eager  demands  on  Gov- 
ernment for  lime-juice,  and  more  lime- 
juice.  Government  had  sent  plenty  of 
lime-juice  ;  but  it  was  somehow  neglect- 
ed among  the  stores  for  twenty-four  days 
when  it  was  most  wanted,  as  was  the  sup- 
ply of  rice  for  six  weeks  when  dysentery 
was  raging.  All  the  time,  the  truth  was, 
as  was  acknowledged  afterwards,  that  the 
thing  really  wanted  was  good  food.  The 
lime-juice  was  a  medicine,  a  specific ; 
but  it  could  be  of  no  real  use  till  the 
frame  was  nourished  with  proper  food. 
When  flour,  and  preserved  vegetables, 
and  fresh  meat  were  served  out,  and  there 
were  coffee-mills  all  through  the  camp, 
the  men  were  still  unable  to  benefit  by  the 
change  as  their  allies  did.  They  could 
grind  and  make  their  coffee ;  but  they 
were  still  without  good  fresh  bread  and 
soup.  They  despised  the  preserved  vege- 
tables, not  believing  that  those  little  cakes 
could  do  them  any  good.  When  they 
learned  at  last  how  two  ounces  of  those 
little  cakes  were  equal,  when  well  cook- 
ed, to  eight  ounces  of  fresh  vegetables, 
and  just  as  profitable  for  a  stew  or  with 
their  meat,  they  duly  prized  them,  and 
during  the  final  healthy  period  those 
pressed  vegetables  were  regarded  in  the 
camp  as  a  necessary  of  life.  By  that 
time,  Soyer's  zeal  had  introduced  good 
cookery  into  the  camp.  Roads  were 
made  by  which  supplies  were  continual- 
ly arriving.     Fresh  meat  abounded ;  and 


it  was  brought  in  on  its  own  legs,  so  that 
it  was  certain  that  beef  was  beef,  and 
mutton  mutton,  instead  of  goat's  flesh 
being  substituted,  as  in  Bulgaria.  By 
that  time  it  was  discovered  that  the  most 
lavish  orders  at  home  and  the  profusest 
expenditure  by  the  commissariat  will  not 
feed  and  clothe  an  army  in  a  foreign 
country,  unless  there  is  some  agency, 
working  between  the  commissariat  and 
the  soldiers,  to  take  care  that  the  food 
is  actually  in  their  hands  in  an  eatable 
form,  and  the  clothes  on  their  backs. 

It  is  for  American  soldiers  to  judge 
how  much  of  this  applies  to  their  case. 
The  great  majority  of  the  volunteers  must 
be  handy,  self-helping  men ;  and  bands 
of  citizens  from  the  same  towns  or  vil- 
lages must  be  disposed  and  accustomed 
to  concerted  action ;  but  cooking  is  prob- 
ably the  last  thing  they  have  any  of  them 
turned  their  hand  to.  Much  depends  on 
the  source  of  "their  food-supply.  I  fear 
they  live  on  the  country  they  are  in,  —  at 
least,  when  in  the  enemy's  country.  This 
is  very  easy  living,  certainly.  To  shoot 
pigs  or  fowls  in  road  or  yard  is  one  way 
of  getting  fresh  meat,  as  ravaging  gar- 
dens is  a  short  way  of  feasting  on  vege- 
tables. But  supposing  the  forces  fed 
from  a  regular  commissariat  department, 
is  there  anything  to  be  learned  from  the 
Crimean  campaigns  ? 

The  British  are  better  supplied  with 
the  food  of  the  country,  wherever  they 
are,  than  the  French,  because  it  is  their 
theory  and  practice  to  pay  as  they  go; 
whereas  it  is  the  French,  or  at  least  the 
Bonapartist  theory  and  practice,  to  "  make 
the  war  support  itself,"  that  is,  to  live  up- 
on the  people  of  the  country.  In  the 
Peninsular  War,  the  French  often  found 
themselves  in  a  desert  where  they  could 
not  stay ;  whereas,  when  Wellington  and 
his  troops  followed  upon  their  steps,  the 
peasants  reappeared  from  all  quarters, 
bringing  materials  for  a  daily  market.  In 
the  Crimea,  the  faithful  and  ready  pay- 
ments of  the  English  commissariat  insur- 
ed plenty  of  food  material,  in  the  form  of 
cattle  and  flour,  biscuit  and  vegetables. 
The  defect  was  in  means  of  transport  for 


1861.] 


Health  in  the   Camp. 


575 


bringing  provisions  to  the  camp.  The 
men  were  trying  to  eat  hg,rd  salt  meat 
and  biscuit,  when  scurvy  made  all  eating 
difficult,  while  herds  of  cattle  were  wait- 
ing to  be  slaughtered,  and  ship-loads  of 
flour  were  lying  seven  miles  off.  Whole 
deck-loads  of  cabbages  and  onions  were 
thrown  into  the  sea,  while  the  men  in 
camp  were  pining  for  vegetable  food.  An 
impracticable  track  lay  between ;  and  the 
poor  fellows  died  by  thousands  before  the 
road  could  be  made  good,  and  transport- 
animals  obtained,  and  the  food  distribut- 
ed among  the  tents  and  huts.  Experience 
taught  the  officers  that  the  food  should  be 
taken  entire  charge  of  by  departments  of 
the  army  till  it  was  actually  smoking  in 
the  mens'  hands.  There  were  agents, 
of  course,  in  all  the  countries  round,  to 
buy  up  the  cattle,  flour,  and  vegetables 
needed.  The  animals  should  be  deliver- 
ed at  appointed  spots,  alive  and  in  good 
condition,  that  there  might  be  no  smug- 
gling in  of  joints  of  doubtful  character. 
There  should  be  a  regular  arrangement 
of  shambles,  at  a  proper  distance  from  the 
tents,  and  provided  with  a  special  drain- 
age, and  means  of  disposing  instantly  of 
the  offal.  Each  company  in  the  camp 
should  have  its  kitchen,  and  one  or  two 
skilled  cooks,  —  one  to  serve  on  each  day, 
with  perhaps  two  assistants  from  the  com- 
pany. After  the  regular  establishment 
of  the  kitchens,  there  was  always  food 
ready  and  coffee  procurable  for  the  tired 
men  who  came  in  from  the  trenches  or 
outpost  duty ;  and  it  was  a  man's  own 
fault,  if  he  went  without  a  meal  when  off 
duty. 

It  was  found  to  be  a  grave  mistake  to 
feed  the  soldiers  on  navy  salt  beef  and 
pork.  Corned  beef  and  pork  salted  for 
a  fortnight  have  far  more  nourishment 
and  make  much  less  waste  in  the  prepa- 
ration than  meat  which  is  salted  for  a  voy- 
age of  months.  After  a  time,  very  little 
of  the  hard  salted  meat  was  used  at  all. 
When  it  was,  it  was  considered  essential 
to  serve  out  peas  with  the  pork,  and  flour, 
raisins,  and  suet,  for  a  pudding,  on  salt- 
beef  days.  In  course  of  time  there  were 
additions  which  made  considerable  varie- 


ty: as  rice,  preserved  potatoes,  pressed 
vegetables,  cheese,  dried  fruits  and  suet 
for  puddings,  sugar,  coffee  properly  roast- 
ed, and  malt  liquor.  Beer  and  porter 
answer  much  better  than  any  kind  of 
spirit,  and  are  worth  pains  and  cost  to 
obtain.  With  such  variety  as  this,  with 
portable  kitchens  in  the  place  of  the  cum- 
bersome camp-kettle  per  man,  with  fresh 
bread,  well-cooked  meat  and  vegetables, 
and  well-made  coffee,  the  soldiers  will 
have  every  chance  of  health  that  diet  can 
afford.  Whereas  hard  and  long-kept  salt 
meat,  insufficiently  soaked  and  cooked, 
and  hastily  broiled  meat  or  fowls,  just 
killed,  and  swallowed  by  hungry  men 
unskilled  in  preparing  food,  help  on  dis- 
eases of  the  alimentary  system  as  effectu- 
ally as  that  intemperance  in  melons  and 
cucumbers  and  unripe  grapes  and  apples 
which  has  destroyed  more  soldiers  than 
all  the  weapons  of  all  enemies. 

So  much  for  the  food.  Next  in  order 
come  the  clothing,  and  care  of  the  per- 
son. 

The  newspapers  have  a  great  deal  to 
say,  as  we  have  all  seen,  about  the  bad- 
ness of  much  of  the  clothing  furnished  to 
the  Federal  troops.  There  is  no  need 
to  denounce  the  conduct  of  faithless  con- 
tractors in  such  a  case  ;  and  the  glorious 
zeal  of  the  women,  and  of  all  who  can 
help  to  make  up  clothing  for  the  army, 
shows  that  the  volunteers  at  least  will  be 
well  clad,  if  the  good- will  of  society  can 
effect  it.  Whatever  the  form  of  dress,  it 
is  the  height  of  imprudence  to  use  flimsy 
material  for  it. 

It  seems  to  be  everywhere  agreed,  in 
a  general  way,  that  the  soldier's  dress 
should  be  of  an  easy  fit,  in  the  first  place ; 
light  enough  for  hot  weather  and  noon 
service,  with  resources  of  warmth  for  cold 
weather  and  night  duty.  In  Europe,  the 
blouse  or  loose  tunic  is  preferred  to  every 
other  form  of  coat,  and  knickerbockers  or 
gaiters  to  any  form  of  trousers.  The  shoe 
or  boot  is  the  weak  point  of  almost  all 
military  forces.  The  French  are  getting 
over  it;  and  the  English  are  learning 
from  them.  The  number  of  sizes  and 
proportions  is,  I  think,  five  to  one   of 


576 


Health  in  the   Camp, 


[November, 


what  it  used  to  be  in  the  early  part  of 
the  century,  so  that  any  soldier  can  get 
fitted.     The  Duke  of  Wellington  wrote 
home  from  the  Peninsula  in  those  days, 
— "  If  you  don't  send  shoes,  the  army 
can't  march."  The  enemy  marched  away 
to  a  long  distance  before  the  shoes  arriv- 
ed ;  and  when  they  came,  they  were  all 
too  small.     Such  things  do  not  happen 
now  ;  but  it  often  does  happen  that  hun- 
dreds are  made  footsore,  and  thrown  out 
of  the  march,  by  being  ill-shod ;  and  there 
seems  reason  to  believe  that  much  of  the 
lagging  and  apparent  desertion  of  strag- 
glers in  the  marches  of  the  volunteers  of 
the  Federal  army  is  owing  to  the  diffi- 
culty of  keeping  up  with  men  who  walk 
at  ease.     If  the  Southern  troops  are  in 
such  want  of  shoes  as  is  reported,  that 
circumstance  alone  is  almost  enough  to 
turn  the  scale,  provided  the  Northern 
regiments  attain  the  full  use  of  their  feet 
by  being  accurately  fitted  with  stout  shoes 
or  boots.     During  the  darkest  days  in  the 
Crimea,  those  who  had  boots  which  would 
stick  on  ceased  to  take  them  ofi*.     They 
slept  in  them,  wet  or  dry,  knowing,  that, 
once  oS',  they  could  never  be  got  on 
again.      Such  things  cannot  happen  in 
the  Northern  States,  where  the  stoppage 
of  the  trade  in  shoes  to  the  South  leaves 
leather,  skill,  and  time  for  the  proper 
shoeing  of  the  army ;  but  it  may  not  yet 
be  thoroughly  understood  how  far  the 
practical  value  of  every  soldier  depends 
on  the  welfare  of  his  feet,  and  how  many 
sizes  and  proportions  of  shoe  are  needed 
for  duly  fitting  a  thousand  men. 

As  for  the  rest,  the  conclusion  after  the 
Crimean  campaign  was  that  flannel  shirts 
answer  better  than  cotton  on  the  whole. 
If  the  shirt  is  cotton,  there  must  be  a  flan- 
nel waistcoat ;  and  the  flannel  shirt  an- 
swers the  purpose  of  both,  while  it  is  as 
easily  washed  as  any  material.  Every 
man  should  have  a  flannel  bandage  for 
the  body,  in  case  of  illness,  or  unusual 
fatigue,  or  sudden  changes  of  tempera- 
ture. The  make  and  pressure  of  the 
knapsack  are  very  important,  so  that  the 
weight  may  be  thrown  on  the  shoulders, 
without  pressure  on  the  chest  or  inter- 


ference with  the  arms.  The  main  object 
is  the  avoidance  of  pressure  everywhere, 
from  the  toe-joints  to  the  crown  of  the 
head.  For  this  the  head-covering  should 
be  studied,  that  it  may  afford  shelter  and 
shade  from  heat  and  light,  and  keep  on, 
against  the  wind,  without  pressure  on  the 
temples  or  forehead.  For  this  the  neck- 
tie should  be  studied,  and  the  cut  of  the 
coat-chest  and  sleeve,  when  coats  must 
be  worn  :  and  every  man  must  have  some 
sort  of  overcoat,  for  chilly  and  damp  hours 
of  duty.  There  is  great  danger  in  the 
wearing  of  water-proof  fabrics,  unless  they 
are  so  loose  as  to  admit  of  a  free  circula- 
tion of  air  between  them  and  the  body. 

With  the  clothing  is  generally  connect- 
ed the  care  of  the  person.  It  is  often 
made  a  question,  With  whom  rests  the 
responsibility  of  the  personal  cleanliness 
of  the  soldier?  The  medical  men  de- 
clare that  they  do  what  they  can,  but  that 
there  is  nothing  to  be  said  when  the  men 
are  unsupplied  with  water ;  and  all  per- 
suasions are  thrown  away  when  the  poor 
fellows  are  in  tatters,  and  sleeping  on 
dirty  straw  or  the  bare  ground.  The  in- 
dolent ones,  at  least,  go  on  from  day  to 
day  without  undressing,  combing,  or  wash- 
ing, till  they  are  swarming  with  vermin  ; 
and  then  they  have  lost  self-respect.  But 
if,  before  it  is  too  late,  there  is  an  issue 
of  new  shirts,  boots,  stockings,  comforters, 
or  woollen  gloves,  the  event  puts  spirit  in- 
to them ;  they  will  strip  and  wash,  and 
throw  out  dirt  and  rags  from  their  sleep- 
ing-places, and  feel  respectable  again. 

Perhaps  the  first  consideration  should 
be  on  the  part  of  the  quartermaster, 
whose  business  it  is  to  see  to  the  supply 
of  water;  and  the  sanitary  officer  has 
next  to  take  care  that  every  man  gets  his 
eight  or  ten  gallons  per  day.  If  the  sol- 
diers are  posted  near  a  stream  which  can 
be  used  for  bathing  and  washing  clothes, 
there  ought  to  be  no  difficulty ;  and  ev- 
ery man  may  fairly  be  required  to  be  as 
thoroughly  washed  from  head  to  foot  ev- 
ery day,  and  as  clean  in  his  inner  cloth- 
ing, as  his  own  little  children  at  home. 
If  on  high  and  dry  ground,  where  the 
water-supply  is  restricted,  some  method 


1861.] 


Health  in  the   Camp. 


577 


and  order  are  needed;  but  no  pains 
should  be  spared  to  afford  each  man  his 
eight  or  ten  gallons. 

This  cannot  be  done,  unless  the  source 
of  supply  is  properly  guarded.  When 
unrestrained  access  is  afforded  to  a  spring- 
head or  pond,  the  water  is  fatally  wasted 
and  spoiled.  In  the  Crimea,  the  English 
officers  had  to  build  round  the  spring- 
heads, and  establish  a  regular  order  in 
getting  supplied.  Where  there  is  crowd- 
ing, dirt  gets  thrown  in,  the  water  is  mud- 
died, or  animals  are  brought  to  drink  at 
the  source.  This  ruins  everything ;  for 
animals  will  not  drink  below,  when  the 
mouth  of  horse,  mule,  or  cow  has  touch- 
ed the  water  above.  The  way  is  for 
guardians  to  take  possession,  and  board 
over  the  source,  and  make  a  reservoir 
with  taps,  allowing  water  to  be  taken 
first  for  drinking  and  washing  purposes, 
a  flow  being  otherwise  provided  by  spout 
and  troughs  for  the  animals,  and  for 
cleansing  the  camp.  The  difference  on 
the  same  spot  was  enormous  between  the 
time  when  a  British  sergeant  wrote  that 
he  was  not  so  well  as  at  home,  and  could 
not  expect  it,  not  having  had  his  shoes 
or  any  of  his  clothes  off  for  five  months, 
and  the  same  time  the  next  year,  when  ev- 
ery respectable  soldier  was  fresh  and  tidy, 
with  his  blood  flowing  healthfully  under 
a  clean  skin.  The  poor  sergeant  said,  in 
his  days  of  discomfort :  "  I  wonder  what 
our  sweethearts  would  think  of  us,  if  they 
were  to  see  us  now,  —  unshaved,  unwash- 
ed, and  quite  old  men  ! "  But  in  a  year, 
those  who  survived  had  grown  young 
again,  —  not  shaven,  perhaps,  for  their 
beards  were  a  great  natural  comfort  on 
winter  duty,  but  brushed  and  washed, 
in  vigorous  health,  and  gay  spirits. 

The  next  consideration  is  the  soldier's 
abode,  —  whether  tent,  or  hut,  or  quar- 
ters. 

I  have  shown  certain  British  doctors 
demanding  lime-juice  when  food  was  ne- 
cessary first.  In  the  same  way,  there 
was  a  cry  from  the  same  quarter  for  peat 
charcoal,  instead  of  preventing  the  need 
of  disinfectants.    Wherever  men  are  con- 

egated  in  large  numbers,  —  in  a  cara- 

VOL.  vm.  37 


van,  at  a  fair  in  the  East  or  a  protracted 
camp-meeting  in  the  far  West,  or  as  a 
military  force  anywhere,  there  is  always 
animal  refuse  which  should  not  be  per- 
mitted to  lie  about  for  a  day  or  an  hour. 
Dead  camels  among  Oriental  merchants, 
dead  horses  among  Western  soldiers,  are 
the  cause  of  plague.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  there  will  never  be  a  military  en- 
campment again  without  the  appointment 
of  officers  whose  business  it  shall  be  to  see 
that  all  carrion,  offal,  and  dirt  of  every 
kind  is  put  away  into  its  proper  place 
instantly.  For  those  receptacles,  and 
for  stables  and  shambles,  peat  charcoal 
is  a  great  blessing;  but  it  ought  not  to 
be  needed  in  or  about  the  abodes  of  the 
men.  The  case  is  different  in  different 
armies.  The  French  have  a  showy  or- 
derliness in  their  way  of  settling  them- 
selves on  new  ground,  —  forming  their 
camp  into  streets,  with  names  painted 
up,  and  opening  post-office,  cafis^  and 
bazaars  of  camp-followers  ;  but  they  are 
not  radically  neat  in  their  ways.  In  a 
few  days  or  weeks  their  settlement  is  a 
place  of  stench,  turning  to  disease ;  and 
thus  it  was,  that,  notwithstanding  their 
fresh  bread,  and  good  cookery,  and  clever 
arrangements,  they  were  swept  away  by 
cholera  and  dysentery,  to  an  extent  un- 
revealed  to  this  day,  while  the  British 
force,  once  well  fed  and  clothed,  had 
actually  only  five  per  cent,  sick  from  alii 
causes,  in  their  whole  force. 

The  Sardinians  suffered,  as  I  have  al~ 
ready  observed,  from  their  way  of  mak- 
ing their  huts.  They  excavated  a  space, 
to  the  depth  of  three  or  four  feet,  and 
used  the  earth  they  threw  out  to  embank- 
the  walls  raised  upon  the  edge  of  the  ex- 
cavation. This  procured  warmth  in  win- 
ter and  coolness  in  hot  weather ;  but  the 
interior  was  damp  and  ill-ventilated ;  and 
as  soon  as  there  was  any  collection  of 
refuse  within,  cholera  and  fever  broke 
out.  It  is  essential  to  health  that  the 
dwelling  should  be  above  ground,  admit- 
ting the  circulation  of  air  from  the  base  to 
the  ridge  of  the  roof,  where  there  should 
be  an  escape  for  it  at  all  hours  of  the  day 
and  night. 


578 


Health  in  the   Camp. 


[November 


Among  volunteer  troops  in  America, 
the  difficulty  would  naturally  seem  to 
be  the  newness  of  the  discipline,  the 
strangeness  of  the  requisite  obedience. 
Something  must  be  true  of  all  that  is 
said  of  the  scattering  about  of  food,  and 
other  things  which  have  no  business  to 
lie  about  on  the  ground.  A  soldier  is 
out  of  his  duty  who  throws  away  a  crust, 
of  bread  or  meat,  or  casts  bones  to  dogs,' 
or  in  any  way  helps  to  taint  the  air  or 
obstruct  the  watercourses  or  drains.  It 
may  be  troublesome  to  obey  the  requisi- 
tions of  the  sanitary  authorities  ;  but  it  is 
the  only  chance  for  escaping  camp-dis- 


On  the  other  hand,  in  fixing  on  a  spot 
for  encampment,  it  is  due  to  the  soldier 
to  avoid  all  boggy  places,  and  all  places 
where  the  air  is  stagnant  from  inclos- 
ure  by  woods,  or  near  burial-grounds,  or 
where  the  soil  is  unfavorable  to  drainage. 
The  military  officer  must  admit  the  ad- 
vice of  the  sanitary  officer  in  the  case, 
though  he  may  not  be  always  able  to 
adopt  it.  When  no  overwhelming  mili- 
tary considerations  interfere,  the  soldiers 
have  a  right  to  be  placed  on  the  most 
dry  and  pervious  soil  that  may  offer,  in 
an  airy  situation,  removed  from  swamps 
and  dense  woods,  and  admitting  of  easy 
drainage.  Wood  and  water  used  to  be 
the  quartermaster's  sole  demands ;  now, 
good  soil  and  air  are  added,  and  a  suita- 
ble slope  of  the  ground,  and  other  minor 
requisites. 

It  depends  on  the  character  of  the 
country  whether  quarters  in  towns  and 
villages  are  best,  or  huts  or  tents.  In 
Europe,  town  quarters  are  found  partic- 
ularly fatal ;  and  the  state  of  health  of 
the  inmates  of  tents  and  huts  depends 
much  on  the  structure  and  placing  of 
either.  Precisely  the  same  kind  of  hut 
in  the  Crimea  held  a  little  company  of 
men  in  perfect  health,  or  a  set  of  inva- 
lids, carried  out  one  after  another  to  their 
graves.  Nay,  the  same  hut  bore  these 
different  characters,  according  to  its  po- 
sition at  the  top  of  a  slope,  or  half-way 
down,  so  as  to  collect  under  its  floor  the 
^drainage  from  a  spring.     American  sol- 


diers, however,  are  hardly  likely  to  bo 
hutted,  I  suppose ;  so  I  need  say  no  more 
than  that  in  huts  and  tents  alike  it  is  in- 
dispensable to  health  that  there  should  be 
air-holes,  —  large  spaces,  sheltered  from 
rain,  —  in  the  highest  part  of  the  struc- 
ture, whether  the  entrance  below  be  open 
or  closed.  The  sanitary  officers  no  doubt 
have  it  in  charge  to  see  that  every  man 
has  his  due  allowance  of  cubic  feet  of 
fresh  air,  —  in  other  words,  to  take  care 
that  each  tent  or  other  apartment  is  well 
ventilated,  and  not  crowded.  The  men's 
affair  is  to  establish  such  rules  among 
comrades  as  that  no  one  shall  stop  up 
air-holes,  or  overcrowd  the  place  with 
guests,  or  taint  the  air  with  unwholesome 
fumes.  In  the  British  army,  bell-tents 
are  not  allowed  at  all  as  hospital  tents. 
Active,  healthy  men  may  use  them  in 
their  resting  hours ;  but  their  condemna- 
tion as  abodes  for  the  sick  shows  how 
pressing  is  the  duty  of  ventilating  them 
for  the  use  of  the  strongest  and  healthi- 
est. 

A  sound  and  airy  tent  being  provided, 
the  next  consideration  is  of  bedding. 

The  surgeons  of  the  British  force  were 
always  on  the  lookout  for  straw  and  hay, 
after  being  informed  at  the  outset  that 
the  men  could  not  have  bedding,  though 
it  was  hoped  there  was  enough  for  the 
hospitals.  A  few  nights  in  the  dust, 
among  the  old  bones  and  rubbish  of  Gal- 
lipoli,  and  then  in  the  Bulgarian  marsh- 
es, showed  that  it  would  be  better  to  be- 
stow the  bedding  before  the  men  went 
into  hospital,  and  sheets  of  material  were 
obtained  for  some  of  them  to  lie  upon. 
A  zealous  surgeon  pointed  out  to  the 
proper  officer  that  this  bedding  consisted 
in  fact  of  double  ticking,  evidently  in- 
tended as  paillasses,  to  be  stuffed  with 
straw.  The  straw  not  being  granted,  he 
actually  set  to  work  to  make  hay ;  and, 
being  well  aided  by  the  soldiers,  he  soon 
saw  them  sleeping  on  good  mattresses. 
It  was  understood  in  England,  and  be- 
lieved by  the  Government,  that  every 
soldier  in  camp  had  three  blankets  ;  and 
after  a  time,  this  came  true  :  but  in  the 
interval,  during  the  damp  autumn  and 


1861.] 


Health  in  the  Gamp. 


679 


bitter  winter,  they  had  but  one.  Lying 
on  wet  ground,  with  one  damp  and  dirty 
blanket  over  them,  prepared  hundreds 
for  the  hospital  and  the  grave.  The  mis- 
chief was  owing  to  the  jealousy  of  some 
of  the  medical  authorities,  in  the  first 
place,  who  would  not  see,  believe,  or  al- 
low to  be  reported,  the  fact  that  the  men 
were  in  any  way  ill-supplied,  because 
these  same  doctors  had  specified  the 
stores  that  would  be  wanted, — and  next, 
to  the  absence  of  a  department  for  the  ac- 
tual distribution  of  existing  stores.  With 
the  bedding  the  case  was  the  same  as 
with  the  lime-juice  and  the  rice  :  there 
was  plenty ;  but  it  was  not  served  out  till 
too  late.  When  the  huts  were  inhabited, 
in  the  Crimea,  and  the  wooden  platforms 
had  a  dry  soil  beneath,  and  every  man 
had  a  bed  of  some  sort  and  three  blank- 
ets, there  was  no  more  cholera  or  fever. 

The  American  case  is  radically  unlike 
that  of  any  of  the  combatants  in  the  Cri- 
mean War,  because  they  are  on  the  soil 
of  their  own  country,  within  reach  of 
their  own  railways,  and  always  in  the 
midst  of  the  ordinary  commodities  of  life. 
In  such  a  position,  they  can  with  the  ut- 
most ease  be  supplied  with  whatever  they 
really  want, —  so  profuse  as  are  the  funds 
placed  at  the  command  of  the  author- 
ities. Considering  this,  and  the  well- 
known  handiness  of  Americans,  there 
need  surely  be  no  disease  and  death 
from  privation.  This  may  be  confident- 
ly said  while  we  have  before  us  the  case 
of  the  British  in  the  Crimea  during  the 
second  winter  of  the  war.  A  sanitary 
commission  had  been  sent  out ;  and 
under  their  authority,  and  by  th^  help 
of  experience,  everything  was  rectified. 
The  healthy  were  stronger  than  ever ; 
there  was  scarcely  any  sickness ;  and  the 
wounded  recovered  without  drawback. 
As  the  British  ended,  the  Americans 
ought  to  begin. 

On  the  last  two  heads  of  the  soldier's 
case  there  is  little  to  be  said  here,  be- 
cause the  American  troops  are  at  home, 
and  not  in  a  perilous  foreign  climate,  and 
on  the  shores  of  a  remote  sea.  Their  drill 
can  hardly  be  appointed  for  wrong  hours. 


or  otherwise  mismanaged.  In  regard  to 
transport,  they  have  not  the  embarrass- 
ment of  crowds  of  sick  and  wounded,  far 
away  in  the  Black  Sea,  without  any  ade- 
quate supply  of  mules  and  carriages,  after 
the  horses  had  died  off,  and  without  any 
organization  of  hospital  ships  at  all  equal 
to  the  demand.  Neither  do  they  depend 
for  clothing  and  medicines  on  the  arrival 
of  successive  ships  through  the  storms  of 
the  Euxine  ;  and  they  will  never  see  the 
dreary  spectacle  of  the  foundering  of  a 
noble  vessel  just  arriving,  in  November, 
with  ample  stores  of  winter  clothing, 
medicines,  and  comforts,  which  six  hours 
more  would  have  placed  in  safety.  Un- 
der the  head  of  transport,  they  ought  to 
have  nothing  to  sufier. 

Having  gone  through  the  separate 
items,  and  looking  at  the  case  as  a  whole, 
we  may  easily  perceive  that  in  America, 
as  in  England  and  France  and  every 
other  country,  the  responsibility  of  the 
soldier's  health  in  camp  is  shared  thus. 

The  authorities  are  bound  so  to  ar- 
range their  work  as  that  there  shall  be 
no  hitch  through  which  disaster  shall 
reach  the  soldiery.  The  relations  be- 
tween the  military  and  medical  authori- 
ties must  be  so  settled  and  made  clear  as 
that  no  professional  jealousy  among  the 
doctors  shall  keep  the  commanding  offi- 
cers in  the  dark  as  to  the  needs  of  their 
men,  and  that  no  self-will  or  ignorance 
in  commanding  officers  shall  neutralize 
the  counsels  of  the  medical  men.  The 
military  authorities  must  not  depend  on 
the  report  of  any  doctor  who  may  be  in- 
competent as  to  the  provision  made  for 
the  men's  health,  and  the  doctor  must  be 
authorized  to  represent  the  dangers  of  a 
bad  encampment  without  being  liable  to 
a  recommendation  to  keep  his  opinion  to 
himself  till  he  is  asked  for  it.  These  par- 
ticular dangers  are  best  obviated  by  the 
appointment  of  sanitary  officers,  to  attend 
the  forces,  and  take  charge  of  the  health 
of  the  army,  as  the  physicians  and  sur- 
geons take  charge  of  its  sickness.  If,  be- 
sides, there  is  a  separate  department  be- 
tween the  commissariat  and  the  soldiery, 
to  see  that  the  comforts  provided  are  ac- 


580 


Health  in  the   Camp. 


[November, 


tually  brouglit  wltbin  every  man's  grasp, 
the  authorities  -will  have  done  their  part. 

The  rest  is  the  soldier's  own  concern. 
AVhen  cruelly  pressed  by  hardship,  the 
soldiers  in  Turkey  and  the  Crimea  took 
to  drinking ;  and  what  they  drank  was 
poison.  The  vile  raki  with  which  they 
intoxicated  themselves  carried  hundreds 
to  the  grave  as  surely  as  arsenic  would 
have  done.  When,  at  last,  they  were 
well  fed,  warm,  clean,  and  comfortable, 
and  well  amused  in  the  coffee-houses 
opened  for  them,  there  was  an  end,  or  a 
vast  diminution,  of  the  evil  of  drunken- 
ness. Good  cojffee  and  harmless  luxuries 
were  sold  to  them  at  cost  price ;  and  books 
and  magazines  and  newspapers,  chess, 
draughts,  and  other  games,  were  at  their 
command.  The  American  soldiery  are 
a  more  cultivated  set  of  men  than  these, 
and  are  in  proportion  more  inexcusable 
for  any  resort  to  intemperance.  They 
ought  to  have  neither  the  external  dis- 
comfort nor  the  internal  vacuity  which 
have  caused  drunkenness  in  other  ar- 
mies. The  resort  to  strong  drinks  so 
prevalent  in  the  Americans  is  an  ever- 
lasting mystery  to  Europeans,  who  recog- 
nize in  them  a  self-governing  people,  uni- 
versally educated  up  to  a  capacity  for  in- 
tellectual interests  such  as  are  elsewhere 
found  to  be  a  safeguard  against  intem- 
perance in  drink.  If  the  precautions  in- 
stituted by  the  authorities  are  well  sup- 
ported by  the  volunteers  themselves,  the 
most  fatal  of  all  perils  will  be  got  rid  of. 
If  not,  the  army  will  perish  by  a  veri- 
table suicide.  But  such  a  fate  cannot  be 
in  store  for  such  an  army. 

There  is  something  else  almost  as  in- 
dispensable to  the  health  of  soldiers  as 
sobriety,  and  that  is  subordination.  The 
true,  magnanimous,  patriotic  spirit  of  sub- 
ordination is  not  more  necessary  to  mili- 
tary achievement  than  it  is  to  the  per- 
sonal composure  and  the  trustworthiness 
of  nerve  of  the  individual  soldier.  A 
strong  desire  and  fixed  habit  of  obedience 
to  command  relieve  a  man  of  all  inter- 
nal conflict  between  self-will  and  circum- 
stance, and  give  him  possession  of  his 
full  powers  of  action  and  endurance.    If 


absolute  reliance  on  authority  is  a  ne- 
cessity to  the  great  majority  of  mankind, 
(which  it  is,)  it  is  to  the  few  wisest  and 
strongest  a  keen  enjoyment  when  they 
can  righteously  indulge  in  it ;  and  the  oc- 
casion on  which  it  is  supremely  a  duty — 
in  the  case  of  military  or  naval  service  — 
is  one  of  privilege.  Americans  are  less 
accustomed  than  others  to  prompt  and 
exact  obedience,  being  a  self-governing 
and  unmilitary  nation :  and  they  may  re- 
quire some  time  to  become  aware  of  the 
privileges  of  subordination  to  command. 
But  time  will  satisfy  them  of  the  truth ; 
and  those  who  learn  the  lesson  most  quick- 
ly will  be  the  most  sensible  of  the  advan- 
tage to  health  of  body,  through  ease  of 
mind.  The  abdication  of  self-will  in  re- 
gard to  the  ordering  of  affairs,  the  repose 
of  reliance  upon  the  responsible  parties, 
the  exercise  of  silent  endurance  about 
hardships  and  fatigues,  the  self-respect 
which  relishes  the  honor  of  cooperation 
through  obedience,  the  sense  of  patriotic 
devotedness  which  glows  through  every 
act  of  submission  to  command,  —  all  these 
elevated  feelings  tend  to  composure  of 
the  nerves,  to  the  fortifying  of  brain  and 
limb,  and  the  genial  repose  and  exalta- 
tion of  all  the  powers  of  mind  and  body. 
I  need  not  contrast  with  this  the  case  of 
the  discontented  and  turbulent  volunteer, 
questioning  commands  which  he  is  not 
qualified  to  judge  of,  and  complaining  of 
troubles  which  cannot  be  helped.  It  is 
needless  to  show  what  wear-and-tear  is 
caused  by  such  a  spirit,  and  how  nerve 
and  strength  must,  in  such  a  case,  fail  in 
the  hour  of  effort  or  of  crisis,  and  give 
way  at  once  before  the  assault  of  disease. 
By  the  aid.  of  sobriety  and  the  calm  and 
cheerful  subordination  of  the  true  mili- 
tary character,  the  health  of  the  Federal 
army  may  be  equal  to  its  high  mission  : 
and  all  friends  of  human  freedom,  in  all 
lands,  must  heartily  pray  that  it  may  be 


There  is  another  department  of  the 
subject  which  I  propose  to  treat  of  an- 
other month:  "Health  in  the  Military 
Hospital." 


1861.]  ''The  Stormy  PetreV  581 


"THE    STORMY    PETREL." 

Where  the  gray  crags  beat  back  the  northern  main, 

And  all  around,  the  ever  restless  waves, 

Like  white  sea-wolves,  howl  on  the  lonely  sands. 

Clings  a  low  roof,  close  by  the  sounding  surge. 

If,  in  your  summer  rambles  by  the  shore, 

His  spray-tost  cottage  you  may  chance  espy, 

Enter  and  greet  the  blind  old  mariner. 

Full  sixty  winters  he  has  watched  beside 
The  turbulent  ocean,  with  one  purpose  warmed : 
To  rescue  drowning  men.     And  round  the  coast  — 
For  so  his  comrades  named  him  in  his  youth  — 
They  know  him  as  "  The  Stormy  Petrel"  still. 

Once  he  was  lightning-swift,  and  strong ;  his  eyes 
Peered  through  the  dark,  and  far  discerned  the  wreck 
Plunged  on  the  reef.     Then  with  bold  speed  he  flew. 
The  life-boat  launched,  and  dared  the  smiting  rocks. 

'T  is  said  by  those  long  dwelling  near  his  door. 
That  hundreds  have  been  storm-saved  by  his  arm ; 
That  never  was  he  known  to  sleep,  or.  lag 
In-doors,  when  danger  swept  the  seas.     His  life 
Was  given  to  toil,  his  strength  to  perilous  blasts. 
In  freezing  floods  when  tempests  hurled  the  deep. 
And  battling  winds  clashed  in  their  icy  caves. 
Scared  housewives,  waking,  thought  of  him,  and  said, 
"  '  The  Stormy  Petrel '  is  abroad  to-night, 
And  watches  from  th§  cliffs." 

He  could  not  rest 
When  shipwrecked  forms  might  gasp  amid  the  waves. 
And  not  a  cry  be  answered  from  the  shore. 

Now  Heaven  has  quenched  his  sight ;  but  when  he  hears 

By  his  lone  hearth  the  sullen  sea-winds  clang, 

Or  listens,  in  the  mad,  wild,  drowning  night. 

As  younger  footsteps  hurry  o'er  the  beach 

To  pluck  the  sailor  from  his  sharp-fanged  death,  — 

The  old  man  starts,  with  generous  impulse  thrilled, 

And,  with  the  natural  habit  of  his  heart, 

Calls  to  his  neighbors  in  a  cheery  tone. 

Tells  them  he  '11  pilot  toward  the  signal  guns, 

And  then,  remembering  all  his  weight  of  years, 

Sinks  on  his  couch,  and  weeps  that  he  is  blind. 


582 


A  Story  of  To-Day, 


[November, 


A   STORY  OF   TO-DAY. 


PART  II. 


Margaret  stood  looking  down  in  her 
quiet  way  at  the  sloping  moors  and  fog. 
She,  too,  had  her  place  and  work.  She 
thought  that  night  she  saw  it  clearly,  and 
kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  it,  as  I  said.  They 
plodded  steadily  down  the  wide  years 
opening  before  her.  Whatever  slow,  un- 
ending work  lay  in  them,  whatever  hun- 
gry loneliness  they  held  for  her  heart,  or 
coarseness  of  deed,  she  saw  it  all,  shrink- 
ing from  nothing.  She  looked  at  the  tense 
blue -corded  veins  in  her  wrist,  full  of 
fine  pure  blood,  —  gauged  herself  coolly, 
her  lease  of  life,  her  power  of  endurance, 
— measured  it  out  against  the  work  wait- 
ing for  her.  The  work  would  be  long,  she 
knew.  She  would  be  old  before  it  was 
finished,  quite  an  old  woman,  hard,  me- 
chanical, worn  out.  But  the  day  would 
be  so  bright,  when  it  came,  it  would  atone 
for  all :  the  day  would  be  bright,  the  home 
warm  again ;  it  would  hold  all  that  life 
had  promised  her  of  good. 

All  ?  Oh,  Margaret,  Margaret !  Was 
there  no  sullen  doubt  in  the  brave  re- 
solve ?  Was  there  no  shadow  rose  just 
then,  dark,  ironical,  blotting  out  father 
and  mother  and  home,  coming  nearer, 
less  alien  to  your  soul  than  these,  than 
even  your  God? 

If  any  such  cold,  masterful  shadow  rose 
out  of  years  gone,  and  clutched  at  the 
truest  life  of  her  heart,  she  stifled  it,  and 
thrust  it  down.  And  yet,  leaning  on  the 
gate,  and  thinking  drearily,  vacantly,  she 
remembered  a  time  when  God  came  near- 
er to  her  than  He  did  now,  and  came 
through  that  shadow,  —  when,  by  the  help 
of  that  dead  hope.  He  of  whom  she  read 
to-night  came  close,  an  infinitely  tender 
Helper,  who,  with  the  human  love  that 
was  in  her  heart  to-day,  had  loved  his 
mother  and  John  and  Mary.  Now,  strug- 
gle as  she  would  for  healthy  hopes  and 
warmth,  the  world  was  gray  and  silent. 
Her  defeated  woman's  nature  called  it  so, 
bitterly.     Christ  was  a  dim  ideal  power, 


heaven  far-ofi".  She  doubted  if  it  held  any- 
thing as  real  as  that  which  she  had  losi;. 

As  if  to  bring  back  the  old  times 
more  vividly  to  her,  there  happened  one 
of  those  curious  little  coincidences  with 
which  Fate,  we  think,  has  nothing  to 
do.  She  heard  a  quick  step  along  the 
clay  road,  and  a  muddy  little  terrier 
jumped  up,  barking,  beside  her.  She 
stopped  with  a  suddenness  strange  in  her 
slow  movements.  "  Tiger  I "  she  said, 
stroking  its  head  with  passionate  eager- 
ness. The  dog  licked  her  hand,  smelt 
her  clothes  to  know  if  she  were  the  same : 
it  was  two  years  since  he  had  seen  her. 
She  sat  there,  softly  stroking  him.  Pres- 
ently there  was  a  sound  of  wheels  jog- 
ging down  the  road,  and  a  voice  singing 
snatches  of  some  song,  one  of  those  cheery 
street-songs  that  the  boys  whistle.  It 
was  a  low,  weak  voice,  but  very  pleasant. 
Margaret  heard  it  through  the  dark  ;  she 
kissed  the  dog  with  a  strange  paleness 
on  her  face,  and  stood  up,  quiet,  attentive 
as  before.  Tiger  still  kept  licking  her 
hand,  as  it  hung  by  her  side  :  it  was  cold, 
and  trembled  as  he  touched  it.  She 
waited  a  moment,  then  pushed  the  dog 
from  her,  as  if  his  touch,  even,  caused  her 
to  break  some  vow.  He  whined,  but  she 
hurried  away,  not  waiting  to  know  how 
he  came,  or  with  whom.  Perhaps,  if  Dr. 
Knowles  had  seen  her  face  as  she  looked 
back  at  him,  he  would  have  thought  there 
were  depths  in  her  nature  which  his  prob- 
ing eyes  had  never  reached. 

The  wheels  came  close,  and  directly  a 
cart  stopped  at  the  gate.  It  was  one  of 
those  little  wagons  that  hucksters  drive ; 
only  this  seemed  to  be  a  home-made  affair, 
patched  up  with  wicker-work  and  bits  of 
board.  It  was  piled  up  with  baskets  of 
vegetables,  eggs,  and  chickens,  and  on  a 
broken  bench  in  the  middle  sat  the  driver, 
a  woman.  You  could  not  help  laughing, 
when  you  looked  at  the  whole  turn-out, 
it  had  such  a  make-shift  look  altogether. 


1861.] 


A  Story  of  To-Bay. 


583 


The  reins  were  twisted  rope,  the  wheels 
uneven.  It  went  jolting  along  in  such  a 
careless,  jolly  way,  as  if  it  would  not  care 
in  the  least,  should  it  go  to  pieces  any  min- 
ute just  there  in  the  road.  The  donkey 
that  drew  it  was  bony  and  blind  of  one 
eye ;  but  he  winked  the  other  knowingly 
at  you,  as  if  to  ask  if  you  saw  the  joke  of 
the  thing.  Even  the  voice  of  the  owner 
of  the  establishment,  chirruping  some  idle 
song,  as  I  told  you,  was  one  of  the  cheer- 
iest sounds  you  ever  heard.  Joel,  up  at 
tlie  barn,  forgot  his  dignity  to  salute  it 
with  a  prolonged  "  Hillo  !  "  and  present- 
ly appeared  at  the  gate. 

"  I  'm  late,  Joel,"  said  the  weak  voice. 
It  sounded  like  a  child's  near  at  hand. 

"  We  can  trade  in  the  dark,  Lois,  both 
bein'  honest,"  he  responded,  graciously, 
hoisting  a  basket  of  tomatoes  into  the 
cart,  and  taking  out  a  jug  of  vinegar. 

"  Is  that  Lois  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Howth,  com- 
ing to  the  gate.  "  Sit  still,  child.  Don't 
get  down." 

But  the  child,  as  she  called  her,  had 
scrambled  off  the  cart,  and  stood  beside 
her,  leaning  on  the  wheel,  for  she  was 
helplessly  crippled. 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  down  to- 
night. I  put  some  coffee  on  the  stove. 
Bring  it  out,  Joel." 

Mrs.  Howth  never  put  up  the  shield 
between  herself  and  this  member  of  "  the 
class," — because,  perhaps,  she  was  so 
wretchedly  low  in  the  social  scale.  How- 
ever, I  suppose  she  never  gave  a  reason 
for  it  even  to  herself.  Nobody  could  help 
being  kind  to  Lois,  even  if  he  tried.  Joel 
brought  the  coffee  with  more  readiness 
than  he  would  have  waited  on  Mrs.  Howth. 

"  Barney  will  be  jealous,"  he  said,  pat- 
ting the  bare  ribs  of  the  old  donkey,  and 
glancing  wistfully  at  his  mistress. 

"  Give  him  his  supper,  surely,"  she  said, 
taking  the  hint. 

It  was  a  real  treat  to  see  how  Lois  en- 
joyed her  supper,  sipping  and  tasting  the 
warm  coffee,  her  face  in  a  glow,  like  an 
epicure  over  some  rare  Falernian.  You 
would  be  sure,  from  just  that  little  thing, 
that  no  sparkle  of  warmth  or  pleasure  in 
the  world  slipped  by  her  which  she  did 


not  catch  and  enjoy  and  be  thankful  for 
to  the  uttermost.  You  would  think,  per- 
haps, pitifully,  that  not  much  pleasure  or 
warmth  would  ever  go  down  so  low,  with- 
in her  reach.  Now  that  she  stood  on  the 
ground,  she  scarcely  came  up  to  the  level 
of  the  wheel ;  some  deformity  of  her  legs 
made  her  walk  with  a  curious  rolling  jerk, 
very  comical  to  see.  She  laughed  at  it, 
when  other  people  did ;  if  it  vexed  her  at 
all,  she  never  showed  it.  She  had  turn- 
ed back  her  calico  sun-bonnet,  and  stood 
looking  up  at  Mrs.  Howth  and  Joel,  laugh- 
ing as  they  talked  with  her.  The  face 
would  have  startled  you  on  so  old  and 
stunted  a  body.  It  was  a  child's  face, 
quick,  eager,  with  that  pitiful  beauty  you 
always  see  in  deformed  people.  Her  eyes, 
I  think,  were  the  kindliest,  the  hopefullest 
I  ever  saw.  Nothing  but  the  pale  thick- 
ness of  her  skin  betrayed  the  fact  that  set 
Lois  apart  from  even  the  poorest  poor, — 
the  taint  in  her  veins  of  black  blood. 

"  Whoy  !  be  n't  this  Tiger  ?  "  said  Joel, 
as  the  dog  ran  yelping  about  him.  "  How 
comed  yoh  with  him,  Lois  ?  " 

"  Tiger  an'  his  master  's  good  friends 
o*  mine, —  you  remember  they  alius  was. 
An*  he  's  back  now,  Mr.  Holmes,  —  been 
back  for  a  month." 

Margaret,  walking  in  the  porch  with 
her  father,  stopped. 

"  Are  you  tired,  father  ?     It  is  late." 

"  And  you  are  worn  out,  poor  child ! 
It  was  selfish  in  me  to  forget.  Good- 
night, dear ! " 

Margaret  kissed  him,  laughing  cheer- 
fully, as  she  led  him  to  his  room-door. 
He  lingered,  holding  her  dress. 

"  Perhaps  it  will  be  easier  for  you  to- 
morrow than  it  was  to-day  ?  "  hesitating. 

"  I  am  sure  it  will.  To-morrow  will 
be  sure  to  be  better  than  to-day." 

She  left  him,  and  went  away  with  a 
slow  step  that  did  not  echo  the  promise 
of  her  words. 

Joel,  meanwhile,  consulted  apart  with 
his  mistress. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  emphatically. 
—  "You  must  stay  until  morning,  Lois. 
It  is  too  late.  Joel  will  toss  you  up  a 
bed  in  the  loft." 


584 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


[November, 


The  queer  little  body  hesitated. 

"  I  can  stay,"  she  said,  at  last.  "  It 's 
his  watch  at  the  mill  to-night." 

"  Whose  watch  ?  "  demanded  Joeh 

Her  face  brightened. 

"  Father's.     He  's  back,  mum." 

Joel  caught  himself  in  a  whistle. 

"  He  's  very  stiddy,  Joel,  —  as  stiddy 
as  yoh." 

"  I  am  very  glad  he  has  come  back, 
Lois,"  said  Mrs.  Howth,  gravely. 

At  every  place  where  Lois  had  been 
that  day  she  had  told  her  bit  of  good 
news,  and  at  every  place  it  had  been  met 
with  the  same  kindly  smile  and  "  I  'm  glad 
he  's  back,  Lois." 

Yet  Joe  Yare,  fresh  from  two  years  in 
the  penitentiary,  was  not  exactly  the  per- 
son whom  society  usually  welcomes  with 
open  arms.  Lois  had  a  vague  suspicion 
of  this,  perhaps ;  for,  as  she  hobbled  along 
the  path,  she  added  to  her  own  assurance 
of  his  "  stiddiness  "  earnest  explanations 
to  Joel  of  how  he  had  a  place  in  the  Croft 
Street  woollen-mills,  and  how  Dr.  Knowles 
had  said  he  was  as  ready  a  stoker  as  any 
in  the  furnace-rooms. 

The  sound  of  her  weak,  eager  voice  was 
silent  presently,  and  nothing  broke  the 
quiet  and  cold  of  the  night.  Even  the 
morning,  when  it  came  long  after,  came 
quiet  and  cool,  —  the  warm  red  dawn 
helplessly  smothered  under  great  waves 
of  gray  cloud.  Margaret,  looking  out  in- 
to the  thick  fog,  lay  down  wearily  again, 
closing  her  eyes.  What  was  the  day  to 
her? 

Very  slowly  the  night  was  driven  back. 
An  hour  after,  when  she  lifted  her  head 
again,  the  stars  were  still  glittering  through 
the  foggy  arch,  like  sparks  of  brassy  blue, 
and  the  sky  and  hills  and  valleys  were 
one  drifting,  slow-heaving  mass  of  ashy 
damp.  Off"  in  the  east  a  stifled  red  film 
groped  through.  It  was  another  day 
coming;  she  might  as  well  get  up,  and 
live  the  rest  of  her  life  out; — what  else 
had  she  to  do  ? 

Whatever  this  night  had  been  to  the 
girl,  it  left  one  thought  sharp,  alive,  in  the 
exhausted  quiet  of  her  brain :  a  cowardly 
dread  of  the  trial  of  the  day,  when  she 


would  see  him  again.  Was  the  old  strug- 
gle of  years  before  coming  back  ?  Was 
it  all  to  go  over  again  ?  She  was  worn 
out.  She  had  been  quiet  in  these  two 
years :  what  had  gone  before  she  nev- 
er looked  back  upon;  but  it  made  her 
thankful  for  even  this  stupid  quiet.  And 
now,  when  she  had  planned  her  life,  busy 
and  useful  and  contented,  why  need  God 
have  sent  the  old  thought  to  taunt  her  ? 
A  wild,  sickening  sense  of  what  might 
have  been  struggled  up :  she  thrust  it 
down,  —  she  had  kept  it  down  all  night; 
the  old  pain  should  not  come  back,  —  it 
should  not.  She  did  not  think  of  the 
love  she  had  given  up  as  a  dream,  as 
verse -makers  or  sham  people  do;  she 
knew  it  to  be  the  reality  of  her  life.  She 
cried  for  it  even  now,  with  all  the  fierce 
strength  of  her  nature ;  it  was  the  best 
she  knew ;  through  it  she  came  nearest 
to  God.  Thinking  of  the  day  when  she 
had  given  it  up,  she  remembered  it  with 
a  vague  consciousness  of  having  fought 
a  deadly  struggle  with  her  fate,  and  that 
she  had  been  conquered, —  never  had 
lived  again.  Let  it  be ;  she  could  not 
bear  the  struggle  again. 

She  went  on  dressing  herself  in  a  drea- 
ry, mechanical  way.  Once,  a  bitter  laugh 
came  on  her  face,  as  she  looked  into  the 
glass,  and  saw  the  dead,  dull  eyes,  and 
the  wrinkle  on  her  forehead.  Was  that 
the  face  to  be  crowned  with  delicate  ca- 
resses and  love?  She  scorned  herself 
for  the  moment,  grew  sick  of  herself, 
balked,  thwarted  in  her  true  life  as  she 
was.  Other  women  whom  God  has  loved 
enough  to  probe  to  the  depths  of  their 
nature  have  done  the  same,  —  saw  them- 
selves as  others  saw  them  :  their  strength 
drying  up  within  them,  jeered  at,  utterly 
alone.  It  is  a  trial  we  laugh  at.  I  think 
the  quick  fagots  at  the  stake  were  fitter 
subjects  for  laughter  than  the  slow  gnaw- 
ing hunger  in  the  heart  of  many  a  slight- 
ed woman  or  a  selfish  man.  They  come 
out  of  the  trial  as  out  of  martyrdom,  ac- 
cording to  their  faith :  you  see  its  marks 
sometimes  in  a  frivolous  old  age  going 
down  with  tawdry  hopes  and  starved  eyes 
to  the  grave ;  you  see  its  victory  in  the 


1861.] 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


585 


freshest,  fullest  lives  in  the  earth.  This 
■woman  had  accepted  her  trial,  but  she 
took  it  up  as  an  inflexible  fate  which  she 
did  not  understand  ;  it  was  new  to  her ; 
its  solitude,  its  hopeless  thirst  were  freshly 
bitter.  She  loathed  herself  as  one  whom 
God  had  thought  unworthy  of  every  wom- 
an's right, — to  love  and  be  loved. 

She  went  to  the  window,  looking  blank- 
ly out  into  the  gray  cold.  Any  one  with 
keen  analytic  eye,  noting  the  thin  muscles 
of  this  woman,  the  childish,  scarlet  lips, 
the  eyes  deep,  concealing,  would  have 
foretold  that  she  would  conquer  in  the  tri- 
al, that  she  would  force  her  soul  down, — 
but  that  the  forcing  down  would  leave  the 
weak,  flaccid  body  spent  and  dead.  One 
thing  was  certain :  no  curious  eyes  would 
see  the  struggle ;  the  body  might  be  nerve- 
less or  sickly,  but  it  had  the  great  power 
of  reticence ;  the  calm  with  which  she 
faced  the  closest  gaze  was  natural  to  her, 
—  no  mask.  When  she  left  her  room 
and  went  down,  the  same  unaltered  quiet 
that  had  baffled  Knowles  steadied  her 
step  and  cooled  her  eyes. 

After  you  have  made  a  sacrifice  of 
yourself  for  others,  did  you  ever  notice 
how  apt  you  were  to  doubt,  as  soon  as 
the  deed  was  irrevocable,  whether,  after 
all,  it  were  worth  while  to  have  done 
it  ?  How  poor  seems  the  good  gained  ! 
How  new  and  unimagined  the  agony  of 
empty  hands  and  stifled  wish!  Very 
slow  the  angels  are,  sometimes,  that  are 
sent  to  minister  I 

Margaret,  going  down  the  stairs  that 
morning,  found  none  of  the  chivalric  un- 
selfish glow  of  the  night  before  in  her 
home.  It  was  an  old,  bare  house  in  the 
midst  of  dreary  moors,  in  which  her  life 
was  slowly  to  be  worn  out :  that  was  all. 
It  did  not  matter ;  life  was  short :  she 
could  thank  God  for  that  at  least. 

She  opened  the  house-door.  A  draught 
of  cold  morning  air  struck  her  face,  sweep- 
ing from  the  west ;  it  had  driven  the  fog 
in  great  gray  banks  upon  the  hills,  or  in 
shimmering  broken  swamps  into  the  cleft 
hollows :  a  vague  twilight  filled  the  space 
left  bare.  Tiger,  asleep  in  the  hall,  rush- 
ed out  into  the  meadow,  barking,  wild 


with  the  freshness  and  cold,  then  back 
again  to  tear  round  her  for  a  noisy  good- 
morning.  The  touch  of  the  dog  seemed 
to  bring  her  closer  to  his  master;  she 
put  him  away  ;  she  dared  not  sufler  even 
that  treachery  to  her  purpose :  because, 
in  fact,  the  very  circumstances  that  had 
forced  her  to  give  him  up  made  it  weak 
cowardice  to  turn  again.  It  was  a  sim- 
ple story,  yet  one  which  she  dared  not 
tell  to  herself;  for  it  was  not  altogether 
for  her  father's  sake  she  had  made  the 
sacrifice.  She  knew,  that,  though  she 
might  be  near  to  this  man  Holmes  as 
his  own  soul,  she  was  a  clog  on  him, — 
stood  in  his  way,  —  kept  him  back.  So 
she  had  quietly  stood  aside,  taken  up  her 
own  solitary  burden,  and  left  him  with 
his  clear  self-reliant  life, — with  his  Self, 
dearer  to  him  than  she  had  ever  been. 
Why  should  it  not  be  ?  she  thought, — re- 
membering the  man  as  he  was,  a  master 
among  men.  He  was  back  again ;  she 
must  see  him.  So  she  stood  there  with 
this  persistent  dread  running  through  her 
brain. 

Suddenly,  in  the  lane  by  the  house,  she 
heard  a  voice  talking  to  Joel,  —  the  huck- 
ster-girl. What  a  weak,  cheery  sound  it 
was  in  the  cold  and  fog !  It  touched  her  cu- 
riously :  broke  through  her  morbid  thought 
as  anything  true  and  healthy  would  have 
done.  "  Poor  Lois ! "  she  thought,  with  an 
eager  pity,  forgetting  her  own  intolerable 
future  for  the  moment,  as  she  gathered 
up  some  breakfast  and  went  with  it  down 
the  lane.  Morning  had  come ;  great 
heavy  bars  of  light  fell  from  behind  the 
hills  athwart  the  banks  of  gray  and  black 
fog ;  there  was  shifting,  uneasy,  obstinate 
tumult  among  the  shadows ;  they  did  not 
mean  to  yield  to  the  coming  dawn.  The 
hills,  the  massed  woods,  the  mist  opposed 
their  immovable  front,  scornfully.  Mar- 
garet did  not  notice  the  silent  contest  un- 
til she  reached  the  lane.  The  girl  Lois, 
sitting  in  her  cart,  was  looking,  quiet,  at- 
tentive, at  the  slow  surge  of  the  shadows, 
and  the  slower  lifting  of  the  slanted  rays. 

"  T'  mornin'  comes  grand  here,  Miss 
Marg'et!"  she  said,  lowering  her  voice. 

Margaret  said  nothing  in  reply;  the 


586 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


[November, 


morning,  she  thought,  was  gray  and  cold, 
as  her  own  life.  She  stood  leaning  on 
the  low  cart ;  some  strange  sympathy- 
drew  her  to  this  poor  wretch,  dwarfed, 
alone  in  the  world,  —  some  tie  of  equal- 
ity, which  the  odd  childish  face,  nor  the 
quaint  air  of  content  about  the  creature, 
did  not  lessen.  Even  when  Lois  shook 
down  the  patched  skirt  of  her  flannel 
frock  straight,  and  settled  the  heaps  of 
corn  and  tomatoes  about  her,  preparatory 
for  a  start,  Margaret  kept  her  hand  on 
the  side  of  the  cart,  and  walked  slowly 
by  it  down  the  road.  Once,  looking  at 
the  girl,  she  thought  with  a  half  smile 
how  oddly  clean  she  was.  The  flannel 
skirt  she  arranged  so  complacently  had 
been  washed  until  the  colors  had  run 
madly  into  each  other  in  sheer  despera- 
tion ;  her  hair  was  knotted  with  a  relent- 
less tightness  into  a  comb  such  as  old 
women  wear.  The  very  cart,  patched  as 
it  was,  had  a  snug,  cozy  look  ;  the  masses 
of  vegetables,  green  and  crimson  and  scar- 
let, were  heaped  with  a  certain  reference 
to  the  glow  of  color,  Margaret  noticed, 
wondering  if  it  were  accidental.  Look- 
ing up,  she  saw  the  girl's  brown  eyes  fix- 
ed on  her  face.  They  were  singularly 
soft,  brooding  brown. 

«  Ye  'r'  goin'  to  th'  mill.  Miss  Marg'et  ?  " 
she  asked,  in  a  half  whisper. 

"  Yes.  You  never  go  there  now, 
Lois?" 

"  No,  'm." 

The  girl  shuddered,  and  then  tried  to 
hide  it  in  a  laugh.  Margaret  walked  on 
beside  her,  her  hand  on  the  cart's  edge. 
Somehow  this  creature,  that  Nature  had 
thrown  impatiently  aside  as  a  failure,  so 
marred,  imperfect,  that  even  the  dogs 
were  kind  to  her,  came  strangely  near 
to  her,  claimed  recognition  by  some  sub- 
tile instinct. 

Partly  for  this,  and  partly  striving  to 
forget  herself,  she  glanced  furtively  at 
the  childish  face  of  the  distorted  little 
body,  wondering  what  impression  the 
shifting  dawn  made  on  the  unfinished 
soul  that  was  looking  out  so  intently 
through  the  brown  eyes.  What  artist 
sense  had  she, — what  could  she  know — 


the  ignorant  huckster  —  of  the  eternal 
laws  of  beauty  or  grandeur  ?  Nothing. 
Yet  something  in  the  girl's  face  made  her 
think  that  these  hills,  this  air  and  sky, 
were  in  fact  alive  to  her,  —  real ;  that 
her  soul,  being  lower,  it  might  be,  than 
ours,  lay  closer  to  Nature,  knew  the  lan- 
guage of  the  changing  day,  of  these  ear- 
nest-faced hills,  of  the  very  worms  crawl- 
ing through  the  brown  mould.  It  was 
an  idle  fancy  ;  Margaret  laughed  at  her- 
self for  it,  and  turned  to  watch  the  slow 
morning  -  struggle  which  Lois  followed 
with  such  eager  eyes. 

The  light  was  conquering,  growing 
stronger.  Up  the  gray  arch  the  soft, 
dewy  blue  crept  gently,  deepening,  broad- 
ening ;  below  it,  the  level  bars  of  light 
struck  full  on  the  sullen  black  of  the 
west,  and  worked  there  undaunted,  tin- 
ging it  with  crimson  and  imperial  pur- 
ple. Two  or  three  coy  mist-clouds,  soon 
converted  to  the  new  allegiance,  drifted 
giddily  about,  mere  flakes  of  rosy  blushes. 
The  victory  of  the  day  came  slowly,  but 
sure,  and  then  the  full  morning  flushed 
out,  fresh  with  moisture  and  light  and  del- 
icate perfume.  The  bars  of  sunlight  fell 
on  the  lower  earth  from  the  steep  hills 
like  pointed  swords ;  the  foggy  swamp  of 
wet  vapor  trembled  and  broke,  so  touch- 
ed, rose  at  last,  leaving  patches  of  damp 
brilliance  on  the  fields,  and  floated  ma- 
jestically up  in  radiant  victor  clouds,  led 
by  the  conquering  wind.  Victory :  it  was 
in  the  cold,  pure  ether  filling  the  heavens, 
in  the  solemn  gladness  of  the  hills.  The 
great  forests  thrilling  in  the  soft  light, 
the  very  sleepy  river  wakening  under  the 
mist,  chorded  in  with  a  grave  bass  to  the 
rising  anthem  of  welcome  to  the  new  life 
which  God  had  freshly  given  to  the  world. 
From  the  sun  himself,  come  forth  as  a 
bridegroom  from  his  chamber,  to  the 
flickering  raindrops  on  the  road -side 
mullein,  the  world  seemed  to  rejoice 
exultant  in  victory.  Homely,  cheerier 
sounds  broke  the  outlined  grandeur  of 
the  morning,  on  which  Margaret  looked 
wearily.  Lois  lost  none  of  them ;  no  mor- 
bid shadow  of  her  own  balked  fife  kept 
their  meaning  from  her. 


1861.] 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


587 


The  light  played  on  the  heaped  vege- 
tables in  the  old  cart ;  the  bony  legs  of 
the  donkey  trotted  on  with  fresh  vigor. 
There  was  not  a  lowing  cow  in  the  distant 
barns,  nor  a  chirping  swallow  on  the 
fence-bushes,  that  did  not  seem  to  include 
the  eager  face  of  the  little  huckster  in 
their  morning  greetings.  Not  a  golden 
dandelion  on  the  road-side,  not  a  gurgle 
of  the  plashing  brown  water  from  the 
well-troughs,  which  did  not  give  a  quicker 
pleasure  to  the  glowing  face.  Its  curious 
content  stung  the  woman  walking  by  her 
side.  What  secret  of  recompense  had 
this  poor  wretch  found? 

"  Your  father  is  here,  Lois,"  she  said 
carelessly,  to  break  the  silence.  "  I  saw 
him  at  the  mill  yesterday." 
Her  face  kindled  instantly. 
"  He  's  home.  Miss  Marg'et,  —  yes. 
An'  it 's  all  right  wid  him.  Things  alius 
do  come  right,  some  time,"  she  added,  in 
a  reflective  tone,  brushing  a  fly  off  Saw- 
ney's ear. 

Margaret  smiled. 

"  Always  ?  Who  brings  them  right 
for  you,  Lois  ?  " 

"  The  Master,"  she  said,  turning  with 
an  answering  smile. 

Margaret  was  touched.  The  owner  of 
the  mill  was  not  a  more  real  verity  to 
this  girl  than  the  Master  of  whom  she 
spoke  with  such  quiet  knowledge. 

"  Are  things  right  in  the  mill  ?  "  she 
said,  testing  her. 

A  shadow  came  on  her  face  ;  her  eyes 
wandered  uncertainly,  as  if  her  weak 
brain  were  confused,  —  only  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  They  '11  come  right ! "  she  said,  brave- 
ly.    "  The  Master  '11  see  to  it !  " 

But  the  light  was  gone  from  her  eyes  ; 
some  old  pain  seemed  to  be  surging 
through  her  narrow  thought ;  and  when 
she  began  to  talk,  it  was  in  a  bewildered, 
doubtful  way. 

"  It 's  a  black  place,  th'  mill,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice.  "  It  was  a  good  while 
I  was  there  :  frum  seven  year  old  till  six- 
teen. 'T  seemed  longer  t'  me  'n  't  was. 
'T  seemed  as  if  I  'd  been  there  alius,  — 
jcs'  forever,  yoh  know.    Tore  I  went  in, 


I  had  the  rickets,  they  say :  that 's  what 
ails  me.  'T  hurt  my  head,  they  've  told  me, 
— made  me  different  frum  other  folks." 

She  stopped  a  moment,  with  a  dumb, 
hungry  look  in  her  eyes.  After  a  while 
she  looked  at  Margaret  furtively,  with  a 
pitiful  eagerness. 

"  Miss  Marg'et,  I  think  there  is  some- 
thing wrong  in  my  head.  Did  yoh  ever 
notice  it  ?  " 

Margaret  put  her  hand  kindly  on  the 
broad,  misshapen  forehead. 

"  Something  is  wrong  everywhere,  Lo- 
is," she  said,  absently. 

She  did  not  see  the  slow  sigh  with 
which  the  gn4  smothered  down  whatever 
hope  had  risen  just  then,  nor  the  wistful 
look  of  the  brown  eyes  that  brightened 
into  bravery  after  a  while. 

*'  It  '11  come  right,"  she  said,  steadily, 
though  her  voice  was  lower  than  before. 

"But  the  mill,"  —  Margaret  recalled 
her, 

"  Th'  mill,  —  yes.  There  was  three  of 
us, — father  'n'  mother  'n'  me, — 'n'  pay 
was  poor.  They  said  times  was  hard. 
They  was  hard  times.  Miss  Marg'et ! " 
she  said,  with  a  nervous  laugh,  the  brown 
eyes  strangely  wandering. 

"  Yes,  hard,"  —  she  soothed  her,  gent- 

"  Pay  was  poor,  'n'  many  things  tuk 
money."  (Remembering  the  girl's  moth- 
er, Margaret  knew  gin  would  have  cov- 
ered the  "  many  things.")  "  Worst  to 
■  me  was  th'  mill.  I  kind  o'  grew  into 
that  place  in  them  years  :  seemed  to  me 
like  as  I  was  part  o'  th'  engines,  some- 
how. Th'  air  used  to  be  thick  in  my 
mouth,  black  wi'  smoke  'n'  wool  'n'  smells. 
It  's  better  now  there.  I  got  stunted 
then,  yoh  know.  'N'  th'  air  in  th'  alleys 
was  worse,  where  we  slep'.  I  think  meb- 
be  as  't  was  then  I  went  wrong  in  my 
head.     Miss  Marg'et ! " 

Her  voice  went  lower. 

"  'T  is  n't  easy  to  think  o'  th'  Master- 
down  tJiere,  in  them  cellars.  Things  comes 
right  —  slow  there,  —  slow." 

Her  eyes  grew  stupid,  as  if  looking 
down  into  some  dreary  darkness. 

"But  the  mill?" 


588 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


[November, 


The  girl  roused  herself  with  a  sharp 
sigh. 

"In  them  years  I  got  dazed  in  my 
head,  I  think.  'T  was  th'  air  'n'  th'  work. 
I  was  weak  alius.  'T  got  so  that  th'  noise 
o'  th'  looms  went  on  in  my  head  night  'n' 
day,  —  alius  thud,  thud.  'N'  hot  days, 
when  th'  hands  was  chaffin'  *n'  singin', 
th*  black  wheels  'n'  rollers  was  alive,  star- 
in'  down  at  me,  'n'  th'  shadders  o'  th'  looms 
was  Hke  snakes  creepin', — creepin'  anear 
all  th'  time.  They  was  very  good  to  me, 
th'  hands  was,  —  very  good.  Ther'  's 
lots  o'  th'  Master's  people  down  there,  out 
o*  sight,  that 's  so  low  they  never  heard  His 
name  :  preachers  don't  go  there.  But 
He  '11  see  to  't.  He  '11  not  min'  their 
cursin'  o'  Him,  seein'  they  don't  know 
His  face,  'n'  thinkin'  He  belongs  to  th' 
gentry.  I  knew  it  wud  come  right  wi' 
me,  when  times  was  th'  most  bad.  I 
knew  " 

The  girl  was  trembling  now  with  ex- 
citement, her  hands  working  together, 
her  eyes  set,  all  the  slow  years  of  ruin 
that  had  eaten  into  her  brain  rising  be- 
fore her,  all  the  tainted  blood  in  her 
veins  of  centuries  of  slavery  and  heathen- 
ism struggling  to  drag  her  down.  But 
above  all,  the  Hope  rose  clear,  simple : 
the  trust  in  the  Master :  and  shone  in 
her  scarred  face,  —  through  her  marred 
senses. 

"  I  knew  it  wud  come  right,  alius.  I 
was  alone  then :  mother  was  dead,  and 
father  was  gone,  'n'  th'  Lord  thought  't 
was  time  to  see  to  me, — special  as  th'  over- 
seer was  gettin'  me  an  enter  to  th'  poor- 
house.  So  He  sent  Mr.  Holmes  along. 
Then  it  come  right  I " 

Margaret  did  not  speak.  Even  this 
mill-girl  could  talk  of  him,  pray  for  him ; 
but  she  never  must  take  his  name  on  her 
lips! 

"  He  got  th'  cart  fur  me,  'n'  this  bless- 
ed old  donkey,  'n'  my  room.  Did  yoh 
ever  see  my  room,  Miss  Marg'et  ?  " 

Her  face  lighted  suddenly  with  its  pe- 
culiar childlike  smile. 

"  No  ?  Yoh  '11  come  some  day,  surely  ? 
It 's  a  pore  place,  yoh  '11  think  ;  but  it 's 
got  th'  air,  —  th'  air." 


She  stopped  to  breathe  the  cold  morn- 
ing wind,  as  if  she  thought  to  find  in  its 
fierce  freshness  the  life  and  brains  she 
had  lost. 

"  Ther'  's  places  in  them  alleys  V 
dark  holes.  Miss  Marg'et,  like  th'  openin's 
to  hell,  with  th'  thick  smells  'n'  th'  sights 
yoh  'd  see." 

She  went  back  with  a  terrible  cling- 
ing pity  to  the  Gehenna  from  which  she 
had  escaped.  The  ill  of  life  was  real 
enough  to  her,  —  a  hungry  devil  down 
in  those  alleys  and  dens.  Margaret  lis- 
tened, waking  to  the  sense  of  a  differ- 
ent pain  in  the  world  from  her  own, — 
lower  deeps  from  which  women  like  her- 
self draw  delicately  back,  lifting  their 
gauzy  dresses. 

"  Openin's  to  hell,  they  're  like.  Peo- 
ple as  come  down  to  preach  in  them  think 
that,  'pears  to  me,  —  'n'  think  we  've  but  a 
little  way  to  go,  bein'  born  so  near.  It 's 
easy  to  tell  they  thinks  it,  —  shows  in 
their  looks.     Miss  Marg'et ! " 

Her  face  flashed. 

"Well,  Lois?" 

"  Th'  Master  has  His  people  'mong 
them  very  lowest,  that  's  not  for  such  as 
yoh  to  speak  to.  He  knows  'em :  men 
'n'  women  starved  'n'  drunk  into  jails 
'n'  work-houses,  that  'd  scorn  to  be  cow- 
ardly or  mean,  —  that  shows  God's  kind- 
ness, through  th'  whiskey  'n'  thievin',  to 
th'  orphints  or — such  as  me.  Ther  's 
things  th'  Master  likes  in  them,  'n'  it  'II 
come  right,"  she  sobbed,  "  it  '11  come  right 
at  last ;  they  '11  have  a  chance  —  some- 
where." 

Margaret  did  not  speak ;  let  the  poor 
girl  sob  herself  into  quiet.  What  had 
she  to  do  with  this  gulf  of  pain  and 
wrong  ?  Her  own  higher  life  was  starv- 
ed, thwarted.  Could  it  be  that  the  blood 
of  these  her  brothers  called  against  her 
from  the  ground  ?  No  wonder  that  the 
huckster-girl  sobbed,  she  thought,  or  talk- 
ed heresy.  It  was  not  an  easy  thing  to 
see  a  mother  drink  herself  into  the  grave. 
And  yet  —  was  she  to  blame  ?  Her  Vir- 
ginian blood  was  cool,  high-bred ;  she 
had  learned  conservatism  in  her  cradle. 
Her  life  in  the  West  had  not  yet  quicken- 


1861.] 


A  Story  of  To-Bay. 


589 


C(l  her  pulse.  So  she  put  aside  whatev- 
er social  mystery  or  wrong  faced  her  in 
this  girl,  just  as  you  or  I  would  have  done. 
She  had  her  own  pain  to  bear.  Was  she 
her  brother's  keeper  ?  It  was  true,  there 
was  wrong ;  this  woman's  soul  lay  shat- 
tered by  it ;  it  was  the  fault  of  her  blood, 
of  her  birth,  and  Society  had  finished  the 
work.  Where  was  the  help  ?  She  was 
free,  —  and  liberty,  Dr.  Knowles  said, 
was  the  cure  for  all  the  soul's  diseases, 
and 

Well,  Lois  was  quiet  now,  —  ready 
with  her  childish  smile  to  be  drawn  into 
a  dissertation  on  Barney's  vices  and  vir- 
tues, or  a  description  of  her  room,  where 
"th'  air  was  so  strong,  'n'  the  fruit  'n' 
vegetables  alius  stayed  fresh,  —  best  in 
this  town,"  she  said,  with  a  bustling  pride. 

They  went  on  down  the  road,  through 
the  corn-fields  sometimes,  or  on  the  riverr 
bank,  or  sometimes  skirting  the  orchards 
or  barn-yards  of  the  farms.  The  fences 
were  well  built,  she  noticed,  —  the  barns 
wide  and  snug-looking :  for  this  county 
in  Indiana  is  settled  by  New  England 
people,  as  a  general  thing,  or  Pennsylva- 
nians.  They  both  leave  their  mark  on 
barns  or  fields,  I  can  tell  you !  The  two 
women  were  talking  all  the  way.  In  all 
his  life  Dr.  Knowles  had  never  heard 
from  this  silent  girl  words  as  open  and 
eager  as  she  gave  to  the  huckster  about 
paltry,  common  things,  —  partly,  as  I  said, 
from  a  hope  to  forget  herself,  and  partly 
from  a  vague  curiosity  to  know  the  strange 
world  which  opened  before  her  in  this 
disjointed  talk.  There  were  no  morbid 
shadows  in  this  Lois's  life,  she  saw.  Her 
pains  and  pleasures  were  intensely  real, 
like  those  of  her  class.  If  there  were  la- 
tent powers  in  her  distorted  brain,  smoth- 
ered by  hereditary  vice  of  blood,  or  foul 
air  and  life,  she  knew  nothing  of  it.  She 
never  probed  her  own  soul  with  fierce 
self-scorn,  as  this  quiet  woman  by  her 
side  did;  —  accepted,  instead,  the  passing 
moment,  with  keen  enjoyment.  For  the 
rest,  childishly  trusted  "  the  Master." 

This  very  drive,  now,  for  instance,  — 
although  she  and  the  cart  and  Barney 
went  through  the  same  routine  every  day. 


you  would  have  thought  it  was  a  new  treat 
for  a  special  holiday,  if  you  had  seen  the 
perfect  abandon  with  which  they  all  threw 
themselves  into  the  fun  of  the  thing. 
Not  only  did  the  very  heaps  of  ruby  to- 
matoes, and  corn  in  delicate  green  cas- 
ings, tremble  and  shine  as  though  they 
enjoyed  the  fresh  light  and  dew,  but  the 
old  donkey  cocked  his  ears,  and  curved 
his  scraggy  neck,  and  tried  to  look  as 
like  a  high-spirited  charger  as  he  could. 
Then  everybody  along  the  road  knew 
Lois,  and  she  knew  everybody,  and  there 
was  a  mutual  liking  and  perpetual  joking, 
not  very  refined,  perhaps,  but  hearty  and 
kind.  It  was  a  new  side  of  life  for  Mar- 
garet. She  had  no  time  for  thoughts  of 
self-sacrifice,  or  chivalry,  ancient  or  mod- 
ern, watching  it.  It  was  a  very  busy 
ride,  —  something  to  do  at  every  farm- 
house :  a  basket  of  eggs  to  be  taken  in, 
or  some  egg-plants,  maybe,  which  Lois 
laid  side  by  side,  Margaret  noticed,  —  the 
pearly  white  balls  close  to  the  heap  of  roy- 
al purple.  No  matter  how  small  the  bas- 
ket was  that  she  stopped  for,  it  brought 
out  two  or  three  to  put  it  in ;  for  Lois  and 
her  cart  were  the  event  of  the  day  for 
the  lonely  farm-houses.  The  wife  would 
come  out,  her  face  ablaze  from  the  oven, 
with  an  anxious  charge  about  that  butter  ; 
the  old  man  would  hail  her  from  the  barn 
to  know  "  ef  she  'd  thought  toh  look  in 
th'  mail  yes'rday  " ;  and  one  or  the  other 
was  sure  to  add,  "  Jes'  time  for  breakfast, 
Lois."  If  she  had  no  baskets  to  stop  for, 
she  had  "  a  bit  o'  business,"  which  turned 
out  to  be  a  paper  she  had  brought  for  the 
grandfather,  or  some  fresh  mint  for  the 
baby,  or  "jes'  to  inquire  fur  th'  fam'ly." 
As  to  the  amount  that  cart  carried,  it 
was  a  perpetual  mystery  to  Lois.  Every 
day  since  she  and  the  cart  went  into  part- 
nership, she  had  gone  into  town  with  a 
dead  certainty  in  the  minds  of  lookers-on 
that  it  would  break  down  in  five  minutes, 
and  a  triumphant  faith  in  hers  in  its  un- 
limited endurance.  "  This  cart  '11  be  right 
side  up  fur  years  to  come,"  she  would  as- 
sert, shaking  her  head.  "  It 's  got  no  more 
notion  o'  givin'  up  than  me  nor  Barney,' — 
not  a  bit."    Margaret  had  her  doubts, — 


590 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


[November, 


and  so  would  you,  if  you  had  heard  how 
it  creaked  under  the  load,  —  how  they 
piled  in  great  straw  panniers  of  apples : 
black  apples  with  yellow  hearts, —  scarlet 
veined,  golden  pippin  apples,  that  held 
the  warmth  and  light  longest,  —  russet 
apples  with  a  hot  blush  on  their  rough 
brown  skins,  —  plums  shining  coldly  in 
their  delicate  purple  bloom,  —  peaches 
with  the  crimson  velvet  of  their  cheeks 
aglow  with  the  prisoned  heat  of  a  hun- 
dred summer  days. 

I  wish  with  all  my  heart  some  artist 
would  paint  me  Lois  and  her  cart  I  Mr. 
Kitts,  the  artist  in  the  city  then,  used  to 
see  it  going  past  his  room  out  by  the 
coal-pits  every  day,  and  thought  about  it 
seriously.  But  he  had  his  grand  battle- 
piece  on  hand  then, — and  after  that  he 
went  the  way  of  all  geniuses,  and  died 
down  into  colorer  for  a  photographer.  He 
met  them,  that  day,  out  by  the  stone  quar- 
ry, and  touched  his  hat  as  he  returned  Lo- 
is's  "  Good-morning,"  and  took  a  couple 
of  great  papaws  from  her.  She  was  a 
woman,  you  see,  and  he  had  some  of  the 
schoolmaster's  old-fashioned  notions  about 
women.  He  was  a  sickly-looking  soul. 
One  day  Lois  had  heard  him  say  that  there 
were  papaws  on  his  mother's  place  in 
Ohio ;  so  after  that  she  always  brought 
him  some  every  day.  She  was  one  of 
those  people  who  must  give,  if  it  is  noth- 
ing better  than  a  Kentucky  banana. 

After  they  passed  the  stone  quarry, 
they  left  the  country  behind  them,  going 
down  the  stubble-covered  hills  that  fenced 
in  the  town.  Even  in  the  narrow  streets, 
and  through  the  warehouses,  the  strong, 
dewy  air  had  quite  blown  down  and  off 
the  fog  and  dust.  Morning  (town  morn- 
ing, to  be  sure,  but  still  morning)  was 
shining  in  the  red  window-panes,  in  the 
tossing  smoke  up  in  the  frosty  air,  in 
the  very  glowing  faces  of  people  hurry- 
ing from  market  with  their  noses  nipped 
blue  and  their  eyes  watering  with  cold. 
Lois  and  her  cart,  fresh  with  country 
breath  hanging  about  them,  were  not 
so  out  of  place,  after  all.  House-maids 
left  the  steps  half-scrubbed,  and  helped 
her  measure  out  the   corn  and  beans. 


gossiping  eagerly ;  the  newsboys  "  Hi-d ! " 
at  her  in  a  friendly,  patronizing  way; 
women  in  rusty  black,  with  sharp,  pale 
faces,  hoisted  their  baskets,  in  which  usu- 
ally lay  a  scraggy  bit  of  flitch,  on  to  the 
wheel,  their  whispered  bargaining  ending 
oftenest  in  a  low  "  Thank  ye,  Lois !  "—for 
she  sold  cheaper  to  some  people  than 
they  did  in  the  market. 

Lois  was  Lois  In  town  or  country.  Some 
subtile  power  lay  in  the  coarse,  distorted 
body,  in  the  pleading  child's  face,  to  rouse, 
wherever  they  went,  the  same  curious, 
kindly  smile.  Not,  I  think,  that  dumb, 
pathetic  eye,  common  to  deformity,  that 
cries,  "  Have  mercy  upon  me,  O  my 
friend,  for  the  hand  of  God  hath  touched 
me ! " — a  deeper,  mightier  charm,  rather: 
a  trust  down  in  the  fouled  fragments  of  her 
brain,  even  in  the  bitterest  hour  of  her 
bare,  wretched  life,— a  faith,  faith  in  God, 
faith  in  her  fellow-man,  faith  in  herself. 
No  human  soul  refused  to  answer  its  sum- 
mons. Down  in  the  dark  alleys,  in  the 
very  vilest  of  the  black  and  white  wretch- 
es that  crowded  sometimes  about  her  cart, 
there  was  an  undefined  sense  of  pride  in 
protecting  this  wretch  whose  portion  of 
life  was  more  meagre  and  low  than  theirs. 
Something  in  them  struggled  up  to  meet 
the  trust  in  the  pitiful  eyes,  —  something 
which  scorned  to  betray  the  trust, — some 
Christ-like  power,  smothered,  dying,  un- 
der the  filth  of  their  life  and  the  terror 
of  hell.  Not  lost.  If  the  Great  Spirit  of 
love  and  trust  lives,  not  lost ! 

Even  in  the  cold  and  quiet  of  the  wom- 
an walking  by  her  side  the  homely  pow- 
er of  the  poor  huckster  was  not  weak  to 
warm  or  to  strengthen.  Margaret  left  her, 
turning  into  the  crowded  street  leading  to 
the  part  of  the  town  where  the  factories 
lay.  The  throng  of  anxious-faced  men  and 
women  jostled  and  pushed,  but  she  pass- 
ed through  them  with  a  different  heart 
from  yesterday's.  Somehow,  the  morbid 
fancies  were  gone  ;  she  was  keenly  alive ; 
the  homely  real  life  of  this  huckster  had 
fired  her,  touched  her  "blood  with  a  more 
vital  stimulus  than  any  tale  of  crusader. 
As  she  went  down  the  crooked  maze  of 
dingy  lanes,  she  could  hear  Lois's  little 


1861.] 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


591 


cracked  bell  far  off:  it  sounded  like  a 
Christmas  song  to  her.  She  half  smiled, 
remembering  how  sometimes  in  her  dis- 
tempered brain  the  world  had  seemed  a 
gray,  dismal  Dance  of  Death.  How  ac- 
tual it  was  to-day,  —  hearty,  vigorous, 
alive  with  honest  work  and  tears  and 
pleasure  !  A  broad,  good  world  to  live 
and  work  in,  to  suffer  or  die,  if  God  so 
willed  it,  —  God,  the  good !  She  entered 
the  vast,  dingy  factory  ;  the  woollen  dust, 
the  clammy  air  of  copperas  were  easier 
to  breathe  in  ;  the  cramped,  sordid  office, 
the  work,  mere  trifles  to  laugh  at ;  and 
she  bent  over  the  ledger  with  its  hard 
lines  in  earnest  good -will,  through  the 
slow  creeping  hours  of  the  long  day. 
She  noticed  that  the  unfortunate  chicken 
was  making  its  heart  glad  over  a  piece 
of  fresh  earth  covered  with  damp  moss. 
Dr.  Knowles  stopped  to  look  at  it  when 
he  came,  passing  her  with  a  surly  nod. 

"  So  your  master 's  not  forgotten  you," 
he  snarled,  while  the  blind  old  hen  cock- 
ed her  one  eye  up  at  him. 

Pike,  the  manager,  had  brought  in 
some  bills. 

"  Who  's  its  master  ?  "  he  said,  curious- 
ly, stopping  by  the  door. 

"  Holmes,  —  he  feeds  it  every  morn- 
ing." 

The  Doctor  drawled  out  the  words  with 
a  covert  sneer,  watching  the  quiet,  cold 
face  bending  over  the  desk,  meantime. 

Pike  laughed. 

"  Bah  !  it 's  the  first  thing  he  ever  fed, 
then,  besides  himself.  Chickens  must  lie 
nearer  his  heart  than  men." 

Knowles  scowled  at  him ;  he  had  no 
fancy  for  Pike's  scurrilous  gossip. 

The  quiet  face  was  unmoved.  When 
he  heard  the  manager's  foot  on  the  lad- 
der without,  he  tested  it  again.  He  had 
a  vague  suspicion  which  he  was  deter- 
mined to  verify. 

"  Holmes,"  he  said,  carelessly,  "  has  an 
affinity  for  animals.  No  wonder.  Adam 
must  have  been  some  such  man  as  he, 
when  the  Lord  gave  him  '  dominion  over 
the  fish  of  the  sea,  and  over  the  fowl  of 
the  air.' " 

The  hand  paused  courteously  a  mo- 


ment, then  resumed  its  quick,  cool  move- 
ment over  the  page.  He  was  not  baf- 
fled. 

.  "  If  there  were  such  a  reality  as  mas- 
tership, that  man  was  born  to  rule.  Pike 
will  find  him  harder  to  cheat  than  me, 
when  he  takes  possession  here." 

She  looked  up  now,  attentive. 

"He  came  here  to  take  my "^ place  in 
the  mills,  —  buy  me  out,  —  articles  will 
be  signed  in  a  day  or  two.  I  know  what 
you  think,—  no, —  not  worth  a  dollar.  On- 
ly brains  and  a  soul,  and  he  's  sold  them 
at  a  high  figure,  —  threw  his  heart  in, — 
the  purchaser  being  a  lady.  It  was  light, 
I  fancy,  —  starved  out,  long  ago." 

The  old  man's  words  were  spurted  out 
in  the  bitterness  of  scorn.  The  girl  lis- 
tened with  a  cool  incredulity  in  her  eyes, 
and  went  back  to  her  work. 

"  Miss  Heme  is  the  lady,  —  my  part- 
ner's daughter.  Heme  and  Holmes  they 
'11  call  the  firm.  He  is  here  every  day, 
counting  future  profit." 

Nothing  could  be  read  on  the  cold  still 
face ;  so  he  left  her,  cursing,  as  he  went, 
men  who  put  themselves  up  at  auction, 
—  worse  than  Orleans  slaves.  Margaret 
laughed  to  herself  at  his  passion ;  as  for 
the  story  he  hinted,  it  was  absurd.  She 
forgot  it  in  a  moment. 

Two  or  three  gentlemen  down  in  one 
of  the  counting-rooms,  just  then,  looked 
at  the  story  from  another  point  of  view. 
They  were  talking  low,  out  of  hearing 
from  the  clerks. 

"  It  's  a  good  thing  for  Holmes,"  said 
one,  a  burly,  farmer-like  man,  who  was 
choosing  specimens  of  wool. 

"  Cheap.  And  long  credit.  Just  half 
the  concern  he  takes." 

"  There  is  a  lady  in  the  case  ?  "  sug- 
gested a  young  doctor,  who,  by  virtue  of 
having  spent  six  months  in  the  South, 
dropped  his  7'-s,  and  talked  of  "  niggahs" 
in  a  way  to  make  a  Georgian's  hair  stand 
on  end. 

"  A  lady  in  the  case  ?  " 

"  0-f  course.  Only  child  of  Heme's. 
He  comes  down  with  the  dust  as  dowry. 
Good  thing  for  Holmes.  'Stonishin'  how 
he  's  made  his  way  up.    If  money  's  what 


592 


A  Story  of  To'Bay, 


[November, 


he  wants  In  this  world,  he  's  making  a 
long  stride  now  to  't." 

The  young  doctor  lighted  his  cigar,  as- 
serting that  — 

"  Ba  George,  some  low  people  did  get 
on,  re-markably  !  Mary  Heme,  now,  was 
best  catch  in  town." 

"  Do  you  think  money  is  what  he 
wants  ? "  said  a  quiet  httle  man,  sitting 
lazily  on  a  barrel,  —  a  clergj^man,  whom 
his  clerical  brothers  shook  their  heads 
when  they  named,  but  never  argued  with, 
and  bowed  to  with  uncommon  deference. 

The  wool-buyer  hesitated  with  a  puz- 
zled look. 

"  No,"  he  said,  slowly ;  "  Stephen  Holmes 
is  not  miserly.  I  've  knowed  him  since 
a  boy.  To  buy  place,  power,  perhaps, 
eh?  Yet  not  that,  neither,"  he  added, 
hastily.  "  We  think  a  sight  of  him  out 
our  way,  (self-made,  you  see,)  and  would 
have  had  him  the  best  office  in  the  State 
before  this,  only  he  was  so  cursedly  in- 
different." 

"  Indifferent,  yes.  No  man  cares  much 
for  stepping-stones  In  themselves,"  said 
the  clergyman,  half  to  himself 

"  Great  fault  of  American  society,  espe- 
cially In  West,"  said  the  young  aristocrat. 
"  Stepping-stones  lie  low,  as  my  rever- 
end friend  suggests ;  impudence  ascends ; 
merit  and  refinement  scorn  such  dirty 
paths," — with  a  mournful  remembrance 
of  the  last  dime  In  his  waistcoat-pocket. 

"  But  do  you,"  exclaimed  the  farmer, 
with  sudden  solemnity,  "do  you  under- 
stand this  scheme  of  Knowles's  ?  Every 
dollar  he  owns  is  in  this  mill,  and  every 
dollar  of  it  is  going  into  some  castle  in  the 
air  that  no  sane  man  can  comprehend." 

"  Mad  as  a  March  hare,"  contemptu- 
ously muttered  the  doctor. 

His  reverend  friend  gave  him  a  look, 
—  after  which  he  was  silent. 

"  I  wish  to  the  Lord  some  one  would 
persuade  him  out  of  it,"  persisted  the 
wool-man,  earnestly  looking  at  the  quiet 
face  of  his  listener.  "  We  can't  spare 
old  Knowles's  brain  or  heart  while  he 
ruins  himself  It 's  something  of  a  Com- 
munist fraternity :  I  don't  know  the  n^me, 
but  I  know  the  thing." 


Very  hard  common-sense  shone  out  of 
his  eyes  just  then  at  the  clerg}Tnan,  whom 
he  suspected  of  being  one  of  Knowles's 
abettors. 

"  There  's  two  ways  for  'em  to  end. 
If  they  're  made  out  of  the  top  of  society, 
they  get  so  refined,  so  Idealized,  that  ev- 
ery particle  flies  off  on  its  own  special 
path  to  the  sun,  and  the  Community  's 
broke ;  and  if  they  're  made  of  the  lower 
mud,  they  keep  going  down,  down  togeth- 
er, —  they  live  to  drink  and  eat,  and  make 
themselves  as  near  the  brutes  as  they  can. 
It  is  n't  easy  to  believe,  Sir,  but  It 's  true. 
I  have  seen  It.  I  've  seen  every  one  of 
them  the  United  States  can  produce.  It 's 
facts^  Sir ;  and  facts,  as  Lord  Bacon  says, 
'•  are  the  basis  of  every  sound  specula- 
tion.' " 

The  last  sentence  was  slowly  brought 
out,  as  quotations  were  not  exactly  his 
/orte,  but,  as  he  said  afterwards, — "  You 
see,  that  nailed  the  parson." 

The  parson  nodded  gravely. 

"  You  '11  find  no  such  experiment  In 
the  Bible,"  threw  In  the  young  doctor, 
alluding  to  "  serious  things  "  as  a  peace- 
offering  to  his  reverend  friend. 

"  One,  I  believe,"  dryly. 

"Well,"  broke  in  the  farmer,  fold- 
ing up  his  wool,  "  that  's  neither  here 
nor  there.  This  experiment  of  Knowles's 
Is  like  nothing  known  since  the  Creation. 
Plan  of  his  own.  He  spends  his  days 
now  hunting  out  the  gallows-birds  out  of 
the  dens  In  town  here,  and  they  're  all  to 
be  transported  Into  the  country  to  start  a 
new  Arcadia.  A  few  men  and  women 
like  himself,  but  the  bulk  is  from  the  dens, 
I  tell  you.  All  start  fair,  level  ground, 
perpetual  celibacy,  mutual  trust,  honor, 
rise  according  to  the  stuff  that 's  In  them, 
—  pah  1  It  makes  me  sick  ! " 

"  Knowles's  inclination  to  that  sort  of 
people  is  easily  explained,"  spitefully  lisp- 
ed the  doctor.  "  Blood,  Sir.  His  moth- 
er was  a  half-breed  Creek,  with  all  the 
propensities  of  the  redskins  to  fire-water 
and  '  itching  palms.'     Blood  will  out." 

"  Here  he  is,"  maliciously  whispered 
the  wool-man.  "  No,  it  's  Holmes,"  he 
added,  after  the  doctor  had  started  Into 


1861.] 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


593 


a  more  respectful  posture,  and  glanced 
around  frightened. 

He,  the  doctor,  rose  to  meet  Holmes's 
coming  footstep,  —  "a  low  fellah,  but  al- 
ways sure  to  be  the  upper  dog  in  the  fight, 
goin'  to  marry  the  best  catch,"  etc.,  etc. 
The  others,  on  the  contrary,  put  on  their 
hats  and  sauntered  away  into  the  street. 
So  the  day  broadened  hotly ;  the  shadows 
of  the  Lombardy  poplars  curdling  up  into 
a  sluggish  pool  of  black  at  their  roots  along 
the  dry  gutters.  The  old  schoolmaster 
in  the  shade  of  the  great  horse-chestnuts 
(brought  from  the  homestead  in  the  Pied- 
mont country,  every  one)  husked  corn  for 
his  wife,  composing,  meanwhile,  a  page  of 
his  essay  on  the  "  Sirventes  de  Bertrand 
de  Born."  The  day  passed  for  him  as  did 
his  life,  half  in  simple-hearted  deed,  half 
in  vague  visions  of  a  dead  world,  never 
to  be  real  again.  Joel,  up  in  the  barn  by 
himself,  worked  through  the  long  day  in 
the  old  fashion,  —  pondering  gravely  (be- 
ing of  a  religious  turn)  updh  a  sermon  by 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Clinche,  reported  in  the 
"  Gazette  " ;  wherein  that  disciple  of  the 
meek  Teacher  invoked,  as  he  did  once 
a  week,  the  curses  of  the  law  upon  his 
political  opponents,  praying  the  Lord  to 
sweep  them  immediately  from  the  face 
of  the  earth.  Which  rendering  of  Chris- 
tian doctrine  was  so  much  relished  by  Joel, 
and  the  other  leading  members  of  Mr. 
Clinche's  church,  that  they  hinted  to  him 
it  might  be  as  well  to  continue  choosing 
his  texts  from  Moses  and  the  Prophets 
until  the  excitement  of  the  day  was  over. 
The  New  Testament  was, — well, — hard- 
ly suited  for  the  emergency ;  did  not, 
somehow,  chime  in  with  the  lesson  of  the 
hour.  I  may  remark,  in  passing,  that  this 
course  of  conduct  so  disgusted  the  High- 
Church  rector  of  the  parish,  that  he  not 
only  ignored  all  new  devils,  (as  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  might  have  called  them,)  but  talked 
as  if  the  millennium  were  un  fait  accom- 
pli^ and  he  had  leisure  to  go  and  hammer 
at  the  poor  dead  old  troubles  of  Luther's 
time.  One  thing,  though,  about  Joel: 
while  he  was  joining  in  Mr.  Clinche's 
prayer  for  the  "  wiping  out "  of  some  few 
thousands,  he  was-  using  up  all  the  frag- 

VOL.   VIII.  38 


ments  of  the  hot  day  in  fixing  a  stall  for 
a  half-dead  old  horse  he  had  found  by  the 
road-side.  Let  us  hope,  that,  even  if  the 
listening  angel  did  not  grant  the  prayer, 
he  marked  down  the  stall  at  least,  as  a 
something  done  for  eternity. 

Margaret,  through  the  heat  and  stifling 
air,  worked  steadily  alone  in  the  dusty 
oflice,  the  cold,  homely  face  bent  over  the 
books,  never  changing  but  once.  It  was 
a  trifle  then ;  yet,  when  she  looked  back 
afterwards,  the  trifle  was  all  that  gave  the 
day  a  name.  The  room  shook,  as  I  said, 
with  the  thunderous,  incessant  sound  of 
the  engines  and  the  looms ;  she  scarcely 
heard  it,  being  used  to  it.  Once,  however, 
another  sound  came  between,  —  a  slow, 
quiet  tread,  passing  through  the  long 
wooden  corridor,  —  so  firm  and  measured 
that  it  sounded  like  the  monotonous  beat- 
ings of  a  clock.  She  heard  it  through  the 
noise  in  the  far  distance ;  it  came  slowly 
nearer,  up  to  the  door  without, — passed 
it,  going  down  the  echoing  plank  walk. 
The  girl  sat  quietly,  looking  out  at  the 
dead  brick  wall.  The  slow  step  fell  on  her 
brain  like  the  sceptre  of  her  master ;  if 
Knowles  had  looked  in  her  face  then,  he 
would  have  seen  bared  the  secret  of  her 
life.  Holmes  had  gone  by,  unconscious 
of  who  was  within  the  door.  She  had 
not  seen  him ;  it  was  nothing  but  a  step 
she  heard.  Yet  a  power,  the  power  of 
the  girl's  life,  shook  oflT  all  outward  masks, 
all  surface  cloudy  fancies,  and  stood  up  in 
her  with  a  terrible  passion  at  the  sound ; 
her  blood  burned  fiercely ;  her  soul  look- 
ed out  from  her  face,  her  soul  as  it  was, 
as  God  knew  it, —  God  and  this  man. 
No  longer  a  cold,  clear  face ;  you  would 
have  thought,  looking  at  it,  what  a  strong 
spirit  the  soul  of  this  woman  would  be,  if 
set  free  in  heaven  or  in  hell.  The  man 
who  held  it  in  his  power  went  on  careless- 
ly, not  knowing  that  the  mere  sound  of  his 
step  had  raised  it  as  from  the  dead.  She, 
and  her  right,  and  her  pain,  were  nothing 
to  him  now,  she  remembered,  staring  out 
at  the  taunting  hot  sky.  Yet  so  vacant 
was  the  sudden  life  opened  before  her 
when  he  was  gone,  that,  in  the  desper- 
ation of  her  weakness,  her  mad  longing 


594 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


[November, 


to  see  him  but  once  again,  sbe  would  have 
thrown  lierself  at  his  feet,  and  let  the  cold, 
heavy  step  crush  her  life  out,  —  as  he 
would  have  done,  she  thought,  choking 
down  the  icy  smother  in  her  throat,  if  it 
had  served  his  purpose,  though  it  cost  his 
own  heart's  life  to  do  it.  He  would  tram- 
ple her  down,  if  she  kept  him  back  from 
his  end ;  but  be  false  to  her,  false  to  him- 
self, that  he  would  never  be  ! 

So  the  hot,  long  day  wore  on, — the  red 
bricks,  the  dusty  desk  covered  with  wool, 
the  miserable  chicken  peering  out,  grow- 
ing sharper  and  more  real  in  the  glare. 
Life  was  no  morbid  nightmare  now ;  her 
weak  woman's  heart  found  it  actual  and 
near.  There  was  not  a  pain  nor  a  want, 
from  the  dumb  hunger  in  the  dog's  eyes 
that  passed  her  on  the  street,  to  her  fa- 
ther's hopeless  fancies,  that  did  not  touch 
her  sharply  through  her  own  loss,  with  a 
keen  pity,  a  wild  wish  to  help  to  do  some- 
thing to  save  others  with  this  poor  life  left 
in  her  hands. 

So  the  hot  day  wore  on  in  the  town  and 
country ;  the  old  sun  glaring  down  like 
some  fierce  old  judge,  intolerant  of  weak- 
ness or  shams, — baking  the  hard  earth  in 
the  streets  harder  for  the  horses'  feet,  dry- 
ing up  the  bits  of  grass  that  grew  between 
the  boulders  of  the  gutter,  scaling  off  the 
paint  from  the  brazen  faces  of  the  inter- 
minable brick  houses.  He  looked  down 
in  that  city  as  in  every  American  town, 
as  in  these  where  you  and  I  live,  on  the 
same  countless  maze  of  human  faces  goin<]j 
day  by  day  through  the  same  monotonous 
routine.  Knowles,  passing  through  the 
restless  crowds,  read  with  keen  eye  among 
them  strange  meanings  by  this  common 
light  of  the  sun,  —  meanings  such  as  you 
and  I  might  read,  if  our  eyes  were  clear 
as  his,  —  or  morbid,  it  may  be.  A  com- 
monplace crowd  like  this  in  the  street 
without :  women  with  cold,  fastidious  fa- 
ces, heavy -brained,  bilious  men,  dapper 
'prentices,  draymen,  prize-fighters,  ne- 
groes. Knowles  looked  about  him  as  into 
a  seething  caldron,  in  which  the  people 
I  tell  you  of  were  atoms,  where  the  blood 
of  uncounted  races  was  fused,  but  not  min- 
gled,—  where  creeds,  philosophies,  cen- 


turies old,  grappled  hand  to  hand  in  their 
death-struggle,— where  innumerable  aims 
and  beliefs  and  powers  of  intellect,  smoth- 
ered  rights  and  triumphant  wrongs,  warred 
together,  struggling  for  victory. 

Vulgar  American  life  ?  He  thought  it 
a  life  more  potent,  more  tragic  in  its  his- 
tory and  prophecy,  than  any  that  has  gone 
before.  People  called  him  a  fanatic.  It 
may  be  that  he  was  one :  yet  the  uncouth 
old  man,  sick  in  soul  from  some  gnawing 
pain  of  his  own  life,  looked  into  the 
depths  of  human  loss  with  a  mad  desire 
to  set  it  right.  On  the  very  faces  of  those 
who  sneered  at  him  he  found  some  traces 
of  failure  or  pain,  something  that  his  heart 
carried  up  to  God  with  aloud  and  exceed- 
ing bitter  cry.  The  voice  of  the  world, 
he  thought,  went  up  to  heaven  a  discord, 
unintelligible,  hopeless, —  the  great  blind 
world,  astray  since  the  first  ages  !  Was 
there  no  hope,  no  help  ? 

The  hot  sun  shone  down,  as  it  had 
done  for  six  thousand  years ;  it  shone  on 
open  problems  in  the  lives  of  these  men 
and  women  who  walked  the  streets,  prob- 
lems whose  end  and  beginning  no  eye 
could  read.  There  were  places  where  it 
did  not  shine  :  down  in  the  fetid  cellars, 
in  the  slimy  cells  of  the  prison  yonder : 
what  riddles  of  human  life  lay  there  he 
dared  not  think  of.  God  knows  how  the 
man  groped  for  the  light, —  for  any  voice 
to  make  earth  and  heaven  clear  to  him. 

So  the  hot,  long  day  wore  on,  for  all  of 
them.  There  was  another  light  by  which 
the  world  was  seen  that  day,  rarer  than 
the  sunshine,  purer.  It  fell  on  the  dense 
crowds, — upon  the  just  and  the  unjust.  It 
went  into  the  fogs  of  the  fetid  dens  from 
which  the  coarser  light  was  barred,  into 
the  deepest  mires  where  a  human  soul 
could  wallow,  and  made  them  clear.  It 
lighted  the  depths  of  the  hearts  whose 
outer  pain  and  passion  men  were  keen  to 
read  in  the  unpitying  sunshine,  and  bared 
in  those  depths  the  feeble  gropings  for 
the  right,  the  loving  hope,  the  unuttered 
prayer.  No  kindly  thought,  no  pure  de- 
sire, no  weakest  faith  in  a  God  and  heaven 
somewhere  could  be  so  smothered  under 
guilt  that  this  subtile  light  did  not  search 


1861.] 


A  Story  of  To-Bay. 


595 


it  out,  glo'w  about  it,  shine  through  it, 
hold  it  up  in  full  view  of  God  and  the 
angels,— lighting  the  world  other  than  the 
sun  had  done  for  six  thousand  years.  We 
have  no  name  for  the  light :  it  has  a  name, 
—  yonder.  Not  many  eyes  were  clear 
to  see  its  shining  that  day ;  and  if  they 
did,  it  was  as  through  a  glass,  darkly. 
Yet  it  belonged  to  us  also,  in  the  old 
time,  the  time  when  men  could  "  hear 
the  voice  of  the  Lord  God  in  the  gar- 
den in  the  cool  of  the  day."  It  is  God's 
light  now  alone. 

Yet  poor  Lois  caught  faint  glimpses,  I 
think,  sometimes,  of  its  heavenly  clear- 
ness. I  think  it  was  this  light  that  made 
the  burning  of  Christmas  fires  warmer 
for  her  than  for  others,  that  showed  her 
all  the  love  and  outspoken  honesty  and 
hearty  frolic  which  her  eyes  saw  perpetu- 
ally in  the  old  warm-hearted  world.  That 
evening,  as  she  sat  on  the  step  of  her 
brown  frame  shanty,  knitting  at  a  great 
blue  stocking,  her  scarred  face  and  mis- 
shapen body  very  pitiful  to  the  passers- 
by,  it  was  this  light  that  gave  to  her  face 
its  homely,  cheery  smile.  It  made  her 
eyes  quick  to  know  the  message  in  the 
depths  of  color  in  the  evening  sky,  or 
even  the  flickering  tints  of  the  green 
creeper  on  the  wall  with  its  crimson  cor- 
nucopias filled  with  hot  sunshine.  She 
liked  clear,  vital  colors,  this  girl,  —  the 
crimsons  and  blues.  They  answered  her, 
somehow.  They  could  speak.  There 
were  things  in  the  world  that  like  herself 
were  marred, —  did  not  understand, — 
were  hungry  to  know :  the  gray  sky,  the 
mud  swamps,  the  tawny  lichens.  She 
cried  sometimes,  looking  at  them,  hard- 
ly knowing  why:  she  could  not  help 
it,  with  a  vague  sense  of  loss.  It  seem- 
ed at  those  times  so  dreary  for  them  to 
be  ahve, —  or  for  her.  Other  things  her 
eyes  were  quicker  to  see  than  ours :  deli- 
cate or  grand  lines,  which  she  perpetually 
sought  for  unconsciously, — in  the  home- 
liest things,  the  very  soft  curling  of  the 
woollen  yam  in  her  fingers,  as  in  the 
eternal  sculpture  of  the  mountains.  Was 
it  the  disease  of  her  injured  brain  that 
made  all  things  alive  to  her, — that  made 


her  watch,  in  her  ignorant  way,  the  grave 
hills,  the  flashing,  victorious  rivers,  look 
pitifully  into  the  face  of  some  dingy  mush- 
room trodden  in  the  mud  before  it  scarce 
had  lived,  just  as  we  should  look  into  hu- 
man faces  to  know  what  they  would  say 
to  us  ?  Was  it  the  weakness  and  igno- 
rance that  made  everything  she  saw  or 
touched  nearer,  more  human  to  her  than 
to  you  or  me  ?  She  never  got  used  to 
living  as  other  people  do;  these  sights 
and  sounds  did  not  come  to  her  common, 
hackneyed.  Why,  sometimes,  out  in  the 
hills,  in  the  torrid  quiet  of  summer  noons, 
she  had  knelt  by  the  shaded  pools,  and 
buried  her  hands  in  the  great  slumberous 
beds  of  water-lilies,  her  blood  curdling 
in  a  feverish  languor,  a  passioned  trance, 
from  which  she  roused  herself,  weak  and 
tired. 

She  had  no  self-poised  artist  sense,  this 
Lois, —  knew  nothing  of  Nature's  laws. 
Yet  sometimes,  watching  the  dun  sea  of 
the  prairie  rise  and  fall  in  the  crimson  light 
of  early  morning,  or,  in  the  farms,  breath- 
ing the  blue  air  trembling  up  to  heaven 
exultant  with  the  life  of  bird  and  forest, 
she  forgot  the  poor  coarse  thing  she  was, 
some  coarse  weight  fell  off,  and  some- 
thing within,  not  the  sickly  Lois  of  the 
town,  went  out,  free,  like  an  exile  dream- 
ing of  home. 

You  tell  me,  that,  doubtless,  in  the 
wreck  of  the  creature's  brain,  there  were 
fragments  of  some  artistic  insight  that 
made  her  thus  rise  above  the  level  of  her 
daily  life,  drunk  with  the  mere  beauty 
of  form  and  color.  I  do  not  know, —  not 
knowing  how  sham  or  real  a  thing  you 
mean  by  artistic  insight.  But  I  do  know 
that  the  clear  light  I  told  you  of  shone  for 
this  girl  dimly  through  this  beauty  of  form 
and  color ;  and  ignorant,  with  no  words 
for  her  thoughts,  she  believed  in  it  as  the 
Highest  that  she  knew.  I  think  it  came 
to  her  thus  an  imperfect  language,  (not 
an  outward  show  of  tints  and  lines,  as  to 
some  artists,)  —  a  language,  the  same  that 
Moses  heard  when  he  stood  alone,  with 
nothing  between  his  naked  soul  and  God, 
but  the  desert  and  the  mountain  and  the 
bush  that  burned  with  fire.    I  think  the 


596 


A  St07y  of  To-Day. 


[November, 


weak  soul  of  the  girl  staggered  from  its 
dungeon,  and  groped  through  these  heavy- 
browed  hills,  these  color-dreams,  through 
even  the  homely  kind  faces  on  the  street, 
to  find  the  God  that  lay  behind.  So  the 
light  showed  her  the  world,  and,  making 
its  beauty  and  warmth  divine  and  near 
to  her,  the  warmth  and  beauty  became 
real  in  her,  found  their  homely  shadows 
in  her  daily  life.  So  it  showed  her,  too, 
through  her  vague  childish  knowledge, 
tbe  Master  in  whom  she  believed, — show- 
ed Him  to  her  in  everything  that  lived, 
more  real  than  all  beside.  The  waiting 
earth,  the  prophetic  sky,  the  coarsest  or 
fairest  atom  that  she  touched  was  but  a 
part  of  Him,  something  sent  to  tell  of  Him, 
—  she  dimly  felt ;  though,  as  I  said,  she 
had  no  words  for  such  a  thought.  Yet 
even  more  real  than  this.  There  was 
no  pain  nor  temptation  down  in  those 
dark  cellars  where  she  went  that  He  had 
not  borne,  —  not  one.  Nor  was  there  the 
least  pleasure  came  to  her  or  the  others, 
not  even  a  cheerful  fire,  or  kind  words, 
or  a  warm,  hearty  laugh,  that  she  did  not 
know  He  sent  it  and  was  glad  to  do  it. 
She  knew  that  well !  So  it  was  that  He 
took  part  in  her  humble  daily  life,  and 
became  more  real  to  her  day  by  day. 
Very  homely  shadows  her  life  gave  of 
His  light,  for  it  was  His :  homely,  be- 
cause of  her  poor  way  of  living,  and  of 
the  depth  to  which  the  heavy  foot  of  the 
world  had  crushed  her.  Yet  they  were 
there  all  the  time,  in  her  cheery  patience, 
if  nothing  more.  To-night,,  for  instance, 
how  differently  the  surging  crowd  seem- 
ed to  her  from  what  it  did  to  Knowles ! 
She  looked  down  on  it  from  her  high 
wood-steps  with  an  eager  interest,  ready 
with  her  weak,  timid  laugh  to  answer  ev- 
ery friendly  call  from  below.  She  had 
no  power  to  see  them  as  types  of  great 
classes ;  they  were  just  so  many  living 
people,  whom  she  knew,  and  who,  most 
of  them,  had  been  kind  to  her.  What- 
ever good  there  was  in  the  vilest  face, 
(and  there  was  always  something,)  she 
was  sure  to  see  it.  The  light  made  her 
poor  eyes  strong  for  that. 

She  liked  to  sit  there  in  the  evenings, 


being  alone,  yet  never  growing  lonesome ; 
there  was  so  much  that  was  pleasant  to 
watch  and  listen  to,  as  the  cool  brown 
twilight  came  on.  If,  as  Knowles  thought, 
the  world  was  a  dreary  discord,  she  knew 
nothing  of  it.  People  were  going  from 
their  work  now,  —  they  had  time  to  talk 
and  joke  by  the  way,  —  stopping,  or  walk- 
ing slowly  down  the  cool  shadows  of  the 
pavement ;  while  here  and  there  a  linger- 
ing red  sunbeam  burnished  a  window,  or 
struck  athwart  the  gray  boulder -paved 
street.  From  the  houses  near  you  could 
catch  a  faint  smell  of  supper :  very  friend- 
ly people  those  were  in  these  houses ;  she 
knew  them  all  well.  The  children  came 
out  with  their  faces  washed,  to  play,  now 
the  sun  was  down  :  the  oldest  of  them  gen- 
erally came  to  sit  with  her  and  hear  a 
story. 

After  it  grew  darker,  you  would  see 
the  girls  in  their  neat  blue  calicoes  go 
sauntering  down  the  street  with  their 
sweethearts  for  a  walk.  There  was  old 
Polston  and  his  son  Sam  coming  home 
from  the  coal-pits,  as  black  as  ink,  with 
their  little  tin  lanterns  on  their  caps. 
After  a  while  Sam  would  come  out  in  his 
suit  of  Kentucky  jean,  his  face  shining 
with  the  soap,  and  go  sheepishly  down 
to  Jenny  Ball's,  and  the  old  man  would 
bring  his  pipe  and  chair  out  on  the  pave- 
ment, and  his  wife  would  sit  on  the  steps. 
Most  likely  they  would  call  Lois  down, 
or  come  over  themselves,  for  they  were 
the  most  sociable,  coziest  old  couple  you 
ever  knew.  There  was  a  great  stopping 
at  Lois's  door,  as  the  girls  walked  past,  for 
a  bunch  of  the  flowers  she  brought  from 
the  country,  or  posies,  as  they  called  them, 
(Sam  never  would  take  any  to  Jenny  but 
"  old  man "  and  pinks,)  and  she  always 
had  them  ready  in  broken  jugs  inside. 
They  were  good,  kind  girls,  every  one  of 
them,  —  had  taken  it  in  turn  to  sit  up  with 
Lois  last  winter  all  the  time  she  had  the 
rheumatism.  She  never  forgot  that  time, 
—  never  once. 

Later  in  the  evening  you  would  see  an 
old  man  coming  along,  close  by  the  wall, 
with  his  head  down, —  a  very  dark  man, 
with  gray,  thin  hair,  —  Joe  Yare,  Lois's 


1861.] 


A   Story  of  To-Day. 


597 


old  father.  No  one  spoke  to  him,  — 
people  always  were  looking  away  as  he 
passed ;  and  if  old  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Polston 
■were  on  the  steps  when  he  came  up,  they 
would  say,  "  Good -evening,  Mr.  Yare," 
very  formally,  and  go  away  presently. 
Jt  hurt  Lois  more  than  anything  else 
they  could  have  done.  But  she  bustled 
about  noisily,  so  that  he  would  not  notice 
it.  If  they  saw  the  marks  of  the  ill  life 
he  had  lived  on  his  old  face,  she  did  not ; 
his  sad,  uncertain  eyes  may  have  been 
dishonest  to  them,  but  they  were  noth- 
ing but  kind  to  the  misshapen  little  soul 
that  he  kissed  so  warmly  with  a  "  Why, 
Lo,  my  little  girl !  "  Nobody  else  in  the 
world  ever  called  her  by  a  pet  name. 

Sometimes  he  was  gloomy  and  silent, 
but  generailly  he  told  her  of  all  that  had 
happened  in  the  mill,  particularly  any 
little  word  of  notice  or  praise  he  might 
have  received,  watching  her  anxiously 
until  she  laughed  at  it,  and  then  rubbing 
his  hands  cheerfully.  He  need  not  have 
doubted  Lois's  faith  in  him.  Whatever 
the  rest  did,  she  believed  in  him  ;  she  al- 
ways had  believed  in  him,  through  all  the 
dark,  dark  years,  when  he  was  at  home, 
and  in  the  penitentiary.  They  were  gone 
now,  never  to  come  back.  It  had  come 
right.  She,  at  least,  thought  his  repen- 
tance sincere.  If  the  others  wronged 
him,  and  it  hurt  her  bitterly  that  they 
did,  that  would  come  right  some  day  too, 
she  would  think,  as  she  looked  at  the  tir- 
ed, sullen  face  of  the  old  man  bent  to  the 
window-pane,  afraid  to  go  out.  They 
had  very  cheerful  little  suppers  there  by 
themselves  in  the  odd,  bare  little  room,  as 
homely  and  clean  as  Lois  herself 

Sometimes,  late  at  night,  when  he  had 
gone  to  bed,  she  sat  alone  in  the  door, 
while  the  moonlight  fell  in  broad  patch- 
es over  the  quiet  square,  and  the  great 
poplars  stood  like  giants  whispering  to- 
gether. Still  the  far  sounds  of  the  town 
came  up  cheerfully,  while  she  folded  up 
her  knitting,  it  being  dark,  thinking  how 
happy  an  ending  this  was  to  a  happy 
day.  When  it  grew  quiet,  she  could  hear 
the  solemn  whisper  of  the  poplars,  and 
Bometimes  broken  strains  of  music  from 


the  cathedral  in  the  city  floated  through 
the  cold  and  moonlight  past  her,  far 
off  into  the  blue  beyond  the  hills.  All 
the  keen  pleasure  of  the  day,  the  warm, 
bright  sights  and  sounds,  coarse  and 
homely  though  they  were,  seemed  to  fade 
into  the  deep  music,  and  make  a  part  of 
it. 

Yet,  sitting  there,  looking  out  into  the 
listening  night,  the  poor  child's  face  grew 
slowly  pale  as  she  heard  it.  It  humbled 
her.  It  made  her  meanness,  her  low, 
weak  life  so  real  to  her !  There  was  no 
pain  nor  hunger  she  had  known  that  did 
not  find  a  voice  in  its  inarticulate  cry. 
She  !  what  was  she  ?  All  the  pain  and 
wants  of  the  world  must  be  going  up  to 
God  in  that  sound,  she  thought.  There 
was  something  more  in  it,  —  an  unknown 
meaning  that  her  shattered  brain  strug- 
gled to  grasp.  She  could  not.  Her  heart 
ached  with  a  wild,  restless  longing.  She 
had  no  words  for  the  vague,  insatiate 
hunger  to  understand.  It  was  because 
she  was  ignorant  and  low,  perhaps ;  oth- 
ers could  know.  She  thought  her  Mas- 
ter was  speaking.  She  thought  the  un- 
known meaning  linked  all  earth  and 
heaven  together,  and  made  it  plain.  So 
she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  listened 
while  the  low  harmony  shivered  through 
the  air,  unheeded  by  others,  with  the  mes- 
sage of  God  to  man.  Not  comprehend- 
ing, it  may  be, —  the  poor  girl,  —  hungry 
still  to  know.  Yet,  when  she  looked  up, 
there  were  warm  tears  in  her  eyes,  and 
her  scarred  face  was  bright  with  a  sad, 
deep  content  and  love. 

So  the  hot,  long  day  was  over  for  them 
all,  —  passed  as  thousands  of  days  have 
done  for  us,  gone  down,  forgotten  :  as 
that  long,  hot  day  we  call  life  will  be  over 
some  time,  and  go  down  into  the  gray 
and  cold.  Surely,  whatever  of  sorrow 
or  pain  may  have  made  darkness  in  that 
day  for  you  or  me,  there  were  count- 
less openings  where  we  might  have  seen 
glimpses  of  that  other  light  than  sunshine : 
the  light  of  ^he  great  Tomorrow,  of  the 
land  where  all  wrongs  shall  be  righted. 
If  we  had  but  chosen  to  see  it,  —  if  we 
only  had  chosen ! 


598 


Concerning  People  who  carried  Weight  in  Life.    [November, 


CONCERNING   PEOPLE  WHO   CARRIED   WEIGHT  IN  LIFE. 
WITH  SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  THOSE  WHO  NEVER  HAD  A  CHANCE. 


You  drive  out,  let  us  suppose,  upon  a 
certain  day.  To  your  surprise  and  mor- 
tification, your  horse,  usually  lively  and 
frisky,  is  quite  dull  and  sluggish.  He 
does  not  get  over  the  ground  as  he  is 
wont  to  do.  The  slightest  touch  of  whip- 
cord, on  other  days,  suffices  to  make  him 
dart  forward  with  redoubled  speed ;  but 
upon  this  day,  after  two  or  three  miles, 
he  needs  positive  whipping,  and  he  runs 
very  sulkily  with  it  all.  By-and-by  his 
coat,  usually  smooth  and  glossy  and  dry 
thi'ough  all  reasonable  work,  begins  to 
stream  like  a  water-cart.  This  will  not 
do.  There  is  something  wrong.  You 
investigate ;  and  you  discover  that  your 
'horse's  work,  though  seemingly  the  same 
as  usual,  is  in  fact  immensely  greater.  The 
blockheads  who  oiled  your  wheels  yester- 
day have  screwed  up  your  patent  axles 
too  tightly  ;  the  friction  is  enormous ;  the 
hotter  the  metal  gets,  the  greater  grows 
the  friction ;  your  horse's  work  is  quad- 
rupled. You  drive  slowly  home,  and  se- 
verely upbraid  the  blockheads. 

There  are  many  people  who  have  to 
go  through  life  at  an  analogous  disadvan- 
tage. There  is  something  in  their  con- 
stitution of  body  or  mind,  there  is  some- 
thing in  their  circumstances,  which  adds 
incalculably  to  the  exertion  they  must  go 
through  to  attain  their  ends,  and  which 
holds  them  back  from  doing  what  they 
might  otherwise  have  done.  Very  prob- 
ably that  malign  something  exerted  its  in- 
fluence unperceived  by  those  around  them. 
They  did  not  get  credit  for  the  struggle 
they  were  going  through.  No  one  knew 
what  a  brave  fight  they  were  making  with 
a  broken  right  arm;  no  one  remarked 
that  they  were  running  the  race,  and 
keeping  a  fair  place  in  it,  too,  with  their 
legs  tied  together.  All  they  do,  they  do 
at  a  disadvantage.  It  is  as  when  a  no- 
ble race-horse  is  beaten  by  a  sorry  hack ; 
because  the  race-horse,  as  you  might  see, 


if  you  look  at  the  list,  is  carrying  twelve 
pounds  additional.  But  such  men,  by 
a  desperate  efibrt,  often  made  silently 
and  sorrowfully,  may  (so  to  speak)  run 
in  the  race,  and  do  well  in  it,  though 
you  little  think  with  how  heavy  a  foot 
and  how  heavy  a  heart.  There  are  oth- 
ers who  have  no  chance  at  all.  TTiey 
are  like  a  horse  set  to  run  a  race,  tied 
by  a  strong  rope  to  a  tree,  or  weighted 
with  ten  tons  of  extra  burden.  That 
horse  cannot  run  even  poorly.  The  dif- 
ference between  their  case  and  that  of 
the  men  who  are  placed  at  a  disadvan- 
tage is  like  the  difierence  between  set- 
ting a  very  near-sighted  man  to  keep  a 
sharp  look-out  and  setting  a  man  who  is 
quite  blind  to  keep  that  sharp  look-out. 
Many  can  do  the  work  of  life  with  diffi- 
culty ;  some  cannot  do  it  at  all.  In  short, 
there  are  people  who  carry  weight 
IN  LIFE,  and  there  are  some  who  nev- 
er HAVE  A  CHANCE. 

And  you,  my  friend,  who  are  doing  the 
work  of  life  well  and  creditably,  —  you 
who  are  running  in  the  front  rank,  and 
likely  to  do  so  to  the  end,  think  kindly 
and  charitably  of  those  who  have  broken 
down  in  the  race.  Think  kindly  of  him 
who,  sadly  overweighted,  is  struggling 
onwards  away  half  a  mile  behind  you ; 
think  more  kindly  yet,  if  that  be  possible, 
of  him  who,  tethered  to  a  ton  of  granite, 
is  struggling  hard  and  making  no  way  at 
all,  or  who  has  even  sat  down  and  given 
up  the  struggle  in  dumb  despair.  You 
feel,  I  know,  the  weakness  in  yourself 
which  would  have  made  you  break  down, 
if  sorely  tried  like  others.  You  know 
there  is  in  your  armor  the  unprotected 
place  at  which  a  well-aimed  or  a  random 
blow  would  have  gone  home  and  brought 
you  down.  Yes,  you  are  nearing  the 
winning-post,  and  you  are  among  the 
first ;  but  six  pounds  more  on  your  back, 
and  you  might  have  been  nowhere.  You 


1861.] 


Concerning  People  who  carried   Weight  in  Life. 


599 


feel,  by  your  weak  heart  and  weary  frame, 
that,  if  you  had  been  sent  to  the  Cri- 
mea in  that  dreadful  first  winter,  you 
would  certainly  have  died.  And  you  feel, 
too,  by  your  lack  of  moral  stamina,  by 
your  feebleness  of  resolution,  that  it  has 
been  your  preservation  from  you  know 
not  what  depths  of  shame  and  misery, 
that  you  never  were  pressed  very  hard 
by  temptation.  Do  not  range  yourself 
with  those  who  found  fault  with  a  certain 
great  and  good  Teacher  of  former  days, 
because  he  went  to  be  guest  with  a  man 
that  was  a  sinner.  As  if  He  could  have 
gone  to  be  guest  with  any  man  who  was 
not! 

There  is  no  reckoning  up  the  manifold 
impedimenta  by  which  human  beings  are 
weighted  for  the  race  of  hfe  ;  but  all  may 
be  classified  under  the  two  heads  of  un- 
favorable influences  arising  out  of  the 
mental  or  physical  nature  of  the  human 
beings  themselves,  and  unfavorable  influ- 
ences arising  out  of  the  circumstances 
in  which  the  human  beings  are  placed. 
You  have  known  men  who,  setting  out 
from  a  very  humble  position,  have  attain- 
ed to  a  respectable  standing,  but  who 
would  have  reached  a  very  much  higher 
place  but  for  their  being  weighted  with 
a  vulgar,  violent,  wrong-headed,  and  rude- 
spoken  wife.  You  have  known  men  of 
lowly  origin  who  had  in  them  the  mak- 
ings of  gentlemen,  but  whom  this  single 
malign  influence  has  condemned  to  coarse 
manners  and  a  frowzy,  repulsive  home  for 
life.  You  have  known  many  men  whose 
powers  are  crippled  and  their  nature 
soured  by  poverty,  by  the  heavy  necessi- 
ty for  calculating  how  far  each  shilling 
will  go,  by  a  certain  sense  of  degradation 
that  comes  of  sordid  shifts.  How  can  a 
poor  parson  write  an  eloquent  or  spirited 
sermon  when  his  mind  all  the  while  is 
running  upon  the  thought  how  he  is  to 
pay  the  baker  or  how  he  is  to  get  shoes 
for  his  children  ?  It  will  be  but  a  dull 
discourse  which,  under  that  weight,  will 
be  produced  even  by  a  man  who,  favor- 
ably placed,  could  have  done  very  con- 
siderable things.     It  is  only  a  great  gen- 


ius here  and  there  who  can  do  great 
things,  who  can  do  his  best,  no  matter 
at  what  disadvantage  he  may  be  placed ; 
the  great  mass  of  ordinary  men  can  make 
little  headway  with  wind  and  tide  dead 
against  them.  Not  many  trees  would 
grow  well,  if  watered  daily  (let  us  say) 
with  vitriol.  Yet  a  tree  which  would 
speedily  die  under  that  nurture  might 
do  very  fairly,  might  even  do  magnificent- 
ly, if  it  had  fair  play,  if  it  got  its  chance 
of  common  sunshine  and  shower.  Some 
men,  indeed,  though  always  hampered  by 
circumstances,  have  accomplished  much  ; 
but  then  you  cannot  help  thinking  how 
much  more  they  might  have  accomplish- 
ed, had  they  been  placed  more  happi- 
ly. Pugin,  the  great  Gothic  architect, 
designed  various  noble  buildings ;  but  I 
beheve  he  complained  that  he  never  had 
fair  play  with  his  finest,  —  that  he  was 
always  weighted  by  considerations  of  ex- 
pense, or  by  the  nature  of  the  ground 
he  had  to  build  on,  or  by  the  number  of 
people  it  was  essential  the  building  should 
accommodate.  And  so  he  regarded  his 
noblest  edifices  as  no  more  than  hints  of 
what  he  could  have  done.  He  made 
grand  running  in  the  race ;  but,  oh,  what 
running  he  could  have  made,  if  you  had 
taken  off  those  twelve  additional  pounds ! 
I  dare  say  you  have  known  men  who  la- 
bored to  make  a  pretty  country-house  on 
a  site  which  had  some  one  great  draw- 
back. They  were  always  battling  with 
that  drawback,  and  trying  to  conquer  it ; 
but  they  never  could  quite  succeed.  And 
it  remained  a  real  worry  and  vexation. 
Their  house  was  on  the  north  side  of  a 
high  hill,  and  never  could  have  its  due 
share  of  sunshine.  Or  you  could  not 
reach  it  but  by  climbing  a  very  steep  as- 
cent ;  or  you  could  not  in  any  way  get 
water  into  the  landscape.  When  Sir 
Walter  was  at  length  able  to  call  his  own 
a  httle  estate  on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed 
he  loved  so  well,  it  was  the  ugliest,  bleak- 
est, and  least  interesting  spot  upon  the 
course  of  that  beautiful  river ;  and  the 
public  road  ran  within  a  few  yards  of 
his  door.  The  noble-hearted  man  made 
a  charming  dwelling  at  last ;  but  he  was 


600 


Concerning  People  who  carried   Weight  in  Life.    [November, 


fighting  against  Nature  in  the  matter  of 
the  landscape  round  it ;  and  you  can  see 
yet,  many  a  year  after  he  left  it,  the  poor 
little  trees  of  his  beloved  plantations  con- 
trasting with  the  magnificent  timber  of 
various  grand  old  places  above  and  be- 
low Abbotsford.  There  is  something  sad- 
der in  the  sight  of  men  who  carried 
weight  within  themselves,  and  who,  in 
aiming  at  usefulness  or  at  happiness, 
were  hampered  and  held  back  by  their 
own  nature.  There  are  many  men  who 
are  weighted  with  a  hasty  temper ;  weight- 
ed with  a  nervous,  anxious  constitution ; 
weighted  with  an  envious,  jealous  dispo- 
sition ;  weighted  with  a  strong  tendency 
to  evil  speaking,  lying,  and  slandering ; 
weighted  with  a  grumbling,  sour,  discon- 
tented spirit ;  weighted  with  a  disposition 
to  vaporing  and  boasting ;  weighted  with 
a  great  want  of  common  sense  ;  weighted 
with  an  undue  regard  to  what  other  peo- 
ple may  be  thinking  or  saying  of  them ; 
weighted  with  many  like  things,  of  which 
more  will  be  said  by-and-by.  When  that 
good  missionary,  Henry  Martyn,  was  in 
India,  he  was  weighted  with  an  irresisti- 
ble drowsiness.  He  could  hardly  keep 
himself  awake.  And  it  must  have  been 
a  burning  earnestness  that  impelled  him 
to  ceaseless  labor,  in  the  presence  of  such  - 
a  drag-weight  as  that.  I  am  not  think- 
ing or  saying,  my  friend,  that  it  is  wholly 
bad  for  us  to  carry  weight, —  that  great 
good  may  not  come  of  the  abatement  of 
our  power  and  spirit  which  may  be  made 
by  that  weight.  I  remember  a  greater 
missionary  than  even  the  sainted  Martyn, 
to  whom  the  Wisest  and  Kindest  appoint- 
ed that  he  should  carry  weight,  and  that 
he  should  fight  at  a  sad  disadvantage. 
And  the  greater  missionary  tells  us  that 
he  knew  why  that  weight  was  appointed 
him  to  carry ;  and  that  he  felt  he  needed 
it  all  to  save  him  from  a  strong  tendency 
to  undue  self-conceit.  No  one  knows,  now, 
what  the  burden  was  which  he  bore ;  but  it 
was  heavy  and  painful ;  it  was  "  a  thorn  in 
the  flesh."  Three  times  he  earnestly  asked 
that  it  might  be  taken  away ;  but  the  an- 
swer he  got  implied  that  he  needed  it  yet, 
and  that  his  Master  thought  it  a  better 


plan  to  strengthen  the  back  than  to  light- 
en the  burden.  Yes,  the  blessed  lledeem- 
er  appointed  that  St.  Paul  should  carry 
weight  in  life  ;  and  I  think,  friendly  read- 
er, that  we  shall  believe  that  it  is  wisely 
and  kindly  meant,  if  the  like  should  come 
to  you  and  me. 

We  all  understand  what  is  meant, 
when  we  hear  it  said  that  a  man  is  do- 
ing very  well,  or  has  done  very  well, 
considering.  I  do  not  know  whether  it 
is  a  Scotticism  to  stop  short  at  that  point 
of  the  sentence.  We  do  it,  constant- 
ly, in  this  country.  The  sentence  would 
be  completed  by  saying,  considering  the 
weight  he  has  to  carry,  or  the  disadvan- 
tage at  tohich  he  works.  And  things 
which  are  very  good,  considering,  may 
range  very  far  up  and  down  the  scale  of 
actual  merit.  A  thing  which  is  very  good, 
considering,  may  be  very  bad,  or  may  be 
tolerably  good.  It  never  can  be  abso- 
lutely very  good  ;  for,  if  it  were,  you 
would  cease  to  use  the  word  considering. 
A  thing  which  is  absolutely  very  good, 
if  it  have  been  done  under  extremely 
unfavorable  circumstances,  would  not  be 
described  as  very  good,  considering ;  it 
would  be  described  as  quite  wonderful, 
considering,  or  as  miraculous,  consider- 
ing. And  it  is  curious  how  people  take 
a  pride  in  accumulating  unfavorable  cir- 
cumstances, that  they  may  overcome  them, 
and  gain  the  glory  of  having  overcome 
them.  Thus,  if  a  man  wishes  to  sign  his 
name,  he  might  write  the  letters  with  his 
right  hand ;  and  though  he  write  them 
very  clearly  and  well  and  rapidly,  no- 
body would  think  of  giving  him  any  cred- 
it. But  If  he  write  his  name  rather  bad- 
ly with  his  left  hand,  people  would  say 
it  was  a  remarkable  signature,  consider- 
ing ;  and  if  he  write  his  name  very  ill 
indeed  with  his  foot,  people  would  say 
the  writing  was  quite  wonderful,  consid- 
ering. If  a  man  desire  to  walk  from  one 
end  of  a  long  building  to  the  other,  he 
might  do  so  by  walking  along  the  floor ; 
and  though  he  did  so  steadily,  swiftly, 
and  gracefully,  no  one  would  remark 
that  he  had  done  anything  worth  notice. 


1861.] 


Concerning  People  who  carried   Weight  in  Life, 


601 


But  if  lie  choose  for  his  path  a  thick  rope, 
extended  from  one  end  of  the  buihling  to 
the  other,  at  a  height  of  a  hundred  feet, 
and  if  he  walk  rather  slowly  and  awk- 
wardly along  it,  he  will  be  esteemed  as 
having  done  something  very  extraordina- 
ry: while  if,  in  addition  to  this,  he  is 
blindfolded,  and  has  his  feet  placed  in 
large  baskets  instead  of  shoes,  he  will,  if 
in  any  way  he  can  get  over  the  distance 
between  the  ends  of  the  building,  be  held 
as  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of 
the  age.  Yes,  load  yourself  with  weight 
which  no  one  asks  you  to  carry ;  accu- 
mulate disadvantages  which  you  need 
not  face,  unless  you  choose ;  then  carry 
the  weight  in  any  fashion,  and  overcome 
the  disadvantages  in  any  fashion  ;  and 
you  are  a  great  man,  considering :  that 
is,  considering  the  disadvantages  and  the 
weight.  Let  this  be  remembered :  if  a 
man  is  so  placed  that  he  cannot  do  his 
work,  except  in  the  face  of  special  diffi- 
culties, then  let  him  be  praised,  if  he  van- 
quish  these  in  some  decent  measure,  and 
if  he  do  his  work  tolerably  well.  But  a 
man  deserves  no  praise  at  all  for  work 
which  he  has  done  tolerably  or  done 
rather  badly,  because  he  chose  to  do  it 
under  disadvantageous  circumstances,  un- 
der which  there  was  no  earthly  call  upon 
him  to  do  it.  In  this  case  he  probably 
is  a  self- conceited  man,  or  a  man  of 
wrong-headed  independence  of  disposi- 
tion ;  and  in  this  case,  if  his  work  be  bad 
absolutely,  don't  tell  him  that  it  is  good, 
considering.  Refuse  to  consider.  He 
has  no  right  to  expect  that  you  should. 
There  was  a  man  who  built  a  house  en- 
tirely with  his  own  hands.  He  had  never 
learned  either  mason-work  or  carpentry  : 
he  could  quite  well  have  afforded  to  pay 
skilled  workmen  to  do  the  work  he  want- 
ed ;  but  he  did  not  choose  to  do  so.  He 
did  the  whole  work  himself.  The  house 
was  finished ;  its  aspect  was  peculiar. 
The  walls  were  off  the  perpendicular 
considerably,  and  the  windows  were  sin- 
gular in  shape ;  the  doors  fitted  badly,  and 
the  floors  were  far  from  level.  In  short, 
it  was  a  very  bad  and  awkward-looking 
house ;   but  it  was  a  wonderful  house, 


considering.  And  people  said  that  it  was 
so,  who  saw  nothing  wonderful  in  the 
beautiful  house  next  it,  perfect  in  sym- 
metry and  finish  and  comfort,  but  built 
by  men  whose  business  it  was  to  build. 
Now  I  should  have  declined  to  admire 
that  odd  house,  or  to  express  the  least 
sympathy  with  its  builder.  He  chose  to 
run  with  a  needless  hundred-weight  on 
his  back  :  he  chose  to  walk  in  baskets  in- 
stead of  in  shoes.  And  if,  in  consequence 
of  his  own  perversity,  he  did  his  work 
badly,  I  should  have  refused  to  recog- 
nize it  as  anything  but  bad  work.  It 
was  quite  different  with  Robinson  Cru- 
soe, who  made  his  dwelling  and  his  fur- 
niture for  himself,  because  there  was  no 
one  else  to  make  them  for  him.  I  dare 
say  his  cave  was  anything  but  exactly 
square ;  and  his  chairs  and  table  were 
cumbrous  enough ;  but  they  were  won- 
derful, considering  certain  facts  which 
he  was  quite  entitled  to  expect  us  to  con- 
sider. Southey's  Cottonian  Library  was 
all  quite  right ;  and  you  would  have  said 
that  the  books  were  very  nicely  bound, 
considering ;  for  Southey  could  not  af- 
ford to  pay  the  regular  binder's  charges ; 
and  it  was  better  that  his  books  should 
be  done  up  in  cotton  of  various  hues  by 
,  the  members  of  his  own  family  than  that 
they  should  remain  not  bound  at  all. 
You  will  think,  too,  of  the  poor  old  par- 
son who  wrote  a  book  which  he  thought 
of  great  value,  but  which  no  publisher 
would  bring  out.  He  was  determined 
that  all  his  labor  should  not  be  lost  to 
posterity.  So  he  bought  types  and  a 
printing-press,  and  printed  his  precious 
work,  poor  man  :  he  and  his  man-servant 
did  it  all.  It  made  a  great  many  volumes ; 
and  the  task  took  up  many  years.  Then 
he  bound  the  volumes  with  his  own  hands  ; 
and  carrying  them  to  London,  he  placed 
a  copy  of  his  work  in  each  of  the  public 
libraries.  I  dare  say  he  might  have  saved 
himself  his  labor.  How  many  of  my 
readers  could  tell  what  was  the  title  of 
the  work,  or  what  was  the  name  of  its 
author  ?  Still,  there  was  a  man  who  ac- 
complished his  design,  in  the  face  of 
every  disadvantage. 


602 


Concerning  PeopU  who  carried   Weight  in  Life.    [November, 


There  is  a  great  point  of  diflference 
between  our  feeling  towards  the  human 
being  who  runs  his  race  much  overweight- 
ed and  our  feehng  towards  the  inferior 
animal  that  does  the  like.  If  you  saw  a 
poor  horse  gamely  struggling  in  a  race, 
with  a  weight  of  a  ton  extra,  you  would 
pity  it.  Your  sympathies  would  all  be  with 
the  creature  that  was  making  the  best  of 
unfavorable  circumstances.  But  it  is  a 
sorrowful  fact,  that  the  drag-weight  of 
human  beings  not  unfrequently  consists 
of  things  which  make  us  angry  rather 
than  sympathetic.  You  have  seen  a  man 
carrying  heavy  weight  in  life,  perhaps  in 
the  form  of  inveterate  wrong-headedness 
and  suspiciousness  ;  but  instead  of  pity- 
ing him,  our  impulse  would  rather  be  to 
beat  him  upon  that  perverted  head.  AYe 
pity  physical  malformation  or  unhealthi- 
ness ;  but  our  bent  is  to  be  angry  with 
intellectual  and  moral  malformation  or 
unhealthiness.  We  feel  for  the  deform- 
ed man,  who  must  struggle  on  at  that 
Bad  disadvantage  ;  feeling  it,  too,  much 
more  acutely  than  you  would  readily  be- 
lieve. But  we  have  only  indignation  for 
the  man  weighted  with  far  worse  things, 
and  things  which,  in  some  cases  at  least, 
he  can  just  as  little  help.  You  have 
known  men  whose  extra  pounds,  or  even , 
extra  ton,  was  a  hasty  temper,  flying  out 
of  a  sudden  into  ungovernable  bursts :  or 
a  moral  cowardice  leading  to  trickery 
and  falsehood :  or  a  special  disposition 
to  envy  and  evil-speaking :  or  a  veiy 
strong  tendency  to  morbid  complaining 
about  their  misfortunes  and  troubles  :  or 
an  invincible  bent  to  be  always  talking 
of  their  suflerings  through  the  derange- 
ment of  their  digestive  organs.  Now, 
you  grow  angry  at  these  things.  You 
cannot  stand  them.  And  there  is  a  sub- 
stratum of  truth  to  that  angry  feeling. 
A  man  can  form  his  mind  more  than  he 
can  form  his  body.  If  a  man  be  well- 
made,  physically,  he  will,  in  ordinary 
cases,  remain  so  :  but  he  may,  in  a  mor- 
al sense,  raise  a  great  hunchback  where 
Nature  made  none.  He  may  foster  a 
malignant  temper,  a  grumbling,  fretful 
spirit,  which  by  manful  resistance  might 


be  much  abated,  if  not  quite  put  down. 
But  still,  there  should  often  be  pity,  where 
we  are  prone  only  to  blame.  We  find  a 
person  in  whom  a  truly  disgusting  char- 
acter has  been  formed  :  well,  if  you  knew 
all,  you  would  know  that  the  person  had 
hardly  a  chance  of  being  otherwise  :  the 
man  could  not  help  it.  You  have  known 
people  who  were  awfully  unamiable  and 
repulsive :  you  may  have  been  told  how 
very  different  they  once  were,  —  sweet- 
tempered  and  cheerful.  And  surely  the 
change  is  a  far  sadder  one  than  that 
which  has  passed  upon  the  wrinkled  old 
woman  who  was  once  (as  you  are  told) 
the  loveliest  girl  of  her  time.  Yet  many 
a  one  who  will  look  with  interest  upon 
the  withered  face  and  the  dimmed  eyes, 
and  try  to  trace  in  them  the  vestiges  of 
radiant  beauty  gone,  will  never  think  of 
puzzling  out  in  violent  spurts  of  petu- 
lance the  perversion  of  a  quick  and  kind 
heart ;  or  in  curious  oddities  and  petti- 
nesses the  result  of  long  and  lonely  years 
of  toil  in  which  no  one  sympathized  ;  or 
in  cynical  bitterness  and  misanthropy 
an  old  disappointment  never  got  over. 
There  is  a  hard  knot  in  the  wood,  where 
a  green  young  branch  was  lopped  away. 
I  have  a  great  pity  for  old  bachelors. 
Those  I  have  known  have  for  the  most 
part  been  old  fools.  But  the  more  fool- 
ish and  absurd  they  are,  the  more  pity  is 
due  them.  I  believe  there  is  something 
to  be  said  for  even  the  most  unamiable 
creatures.  The  shark  is  an  unamiable 
creature.  It  is  voracious.  It  will  snap 
a  man  in  two.  Yet  it  is  not  unworthy 
of  sympathy.  Its  organization  is  such 
that  it  is  always  suffering  the  most  rav- 
enous hunger.  You  can  hardly  imagine 
the  state  of  intolerable  famine  in  which 
that  unhappy  animal  roams  the  ocean. 
People  talk  of  its  awful  teeth  and  its  vin- 
dictive eye.  I  suppose  it  is  well  ascer- 
tained that  the  extremity  of  physical 
want,  as  reached  on  rafts  at  sea,  has  driv- 
en human  beings  to  deeds  as  barbarous 
as  ever  shark  was  accused  of  The  worse 
a  human  being  is,  the  more  he  deserves 
our  pity.  Hang  him,  if  that  be  needful 
for  the  welfare  of  society  ;  but  pity  him 


1861.] 


Concerning  People  who  carried   Weight  in  Life. 


603 


even  as  you  hang.  Many  a  poor  crea- 
ture has  gradually  become  hardened  and 
inveterate  in  guilt  who  would  have  shud- 
dered at  first,  had  the  excess  of  it  ul- 
timately reached  been  at  first  presented 
to  view.  But  the  precipice  was  sloped 
off :  the  descent  was  made  step  by  step. 
And  there  is  many  a  human  being  who 
never  had  a  chance  of  being  good  :  many 
who  have  been  trained,  and  even  com- 
pelled, to  evil  from  very  infancy.  Who 
that  knows  anything  of  our  great  cities, 
but  knows  how  the  poor  little  child,  the 
toddling  innocent,  is  sometimes  sent  out 
day  by  day  to  steal,  and  received  in  his 
wretched  home  with  blows  and  curses,  if 
be  fail  to  bring  back  enough  ?  Who  has 
not  heard  of  such  poor  little  things,  un- 
successful in  their  sorry  work,  sleeping  all 
night  in  some  wintry  stair,  because  they 
durst  not  venture  back  to  their  drunken, 
miserable,  desperate  parents  ?  I  could 
tell  things  at  which  angels  might  shed 
tears,  with  much  better  reason  for  doing 
so  than  seems  to  me  to  exist  in  some  of 
those  more  imposing  occasions  on  which 
bombastic  writers  are  wont  to  describe 
them  as  weeping.  Ah,  there  is  One  who 
knows  where  the  responsibility  for  all  this 
rests !  Not  wholly  with  the  wretched  par- 
ents :  far  from  that.  They,  too,  have 
gone  through  the  like :  they  had  as  little 
chance  as  their  children.  They  deserve 
our  deepest  pity,  too.  Perhaps  the  deep- 
er pity  is  not  due  to  the  shivering,  starr- 
ing child,  with  the  bitter  wind  cutting 
through  its  thin  rags,  and  its  blue  feet  on 
the  frozen  pavement,  holding  out  a  hand 
that  is  like  the  claw  of  some  beast ;  but 
rather  to  the  brutalized  mother  who  could 
thus  send  out  the  infant  she  bore.  Sure- 
ly the  mother's  condition,  if  we  look  at 
the  case  aright,  is  the  more  deplorable. 
Would  not  you,  my  reader,  rather  en- 
dure any  degree  of  cold  and  hunger  than 
come  to  this  ?  Doubtless,  there  is  blame 
somewhere,  that  such  things  should  be : 
but  we  all  know  that  the  blame  of  the 
most  miserable  practical  evils  and  fail- 
ures can  hardly  be  traced  to  particular 
individuals.  It  is  through  the  incapaci- 
ty of  scores  if  public  servants  that  an 


army  is  starved.  It  is  through  the  fault 
of  millions  of  people  that  our  great  towns 
are  what  they  are :  and  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  the  actual  responsibility  is 
spread  so  thinly  over  so  great  a  surface 
that  it  is  hard  to  say  it  rests  very  blackly 
upon  any  one  spot.  Oh  that  we  could 
but  know  whom  to  hang,  when  we  find 
some  flagrant,  crying  evil !  Unluckily, 
hasty  people  are  ready  to  be  content,  if 
they  can  but  hang  anybody,  without  mind- 
ing much  whether  that  individual  be  more 
to  blame  than  many  beside.  Laws  and 
kings  have  something  to  do  here:  but 
management  and  foresight  on  the  part 
of  the  poorer  claisses  have  a  great  deal 
more  to  do.  And  no  laws  can  make 
many  persons  managing  or  provident. 
I  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  from  what  I  have 
myself  seen  of  the  poor,  that  the  same 
short-sighted  extravagance,  the  same 
recklessness  of  consequences,  which  are 
frequently  found  in  them,  would  cause 
quite  as  much  misery,  if  they  prevailed 
in  a  likb  degree  among  people  with  a 
thousand  a  year.  But  it  seems  as  if  only 
the  tolerably  well-to-do  have  the  heart  to 
be  provident  and  self-denying.  A  man 
with  a  few  hundreds  annually  does  not 
marry,  unless  he  thinks  he  can  afford  it : 
but  the  workman  with  fifteen  shillings  a 
week  is  profoundly  indifferent  to  any 
such  calculation.  I  firmly  believe  that 
the  sternest  of  all  self-denial  is  that  prac- 
tised by  those  who,  when  we  divide  man- 
kind into  rich  and  poor,  must  be  classed 
(I  suppose)  with  the  rich.  But  I  turn 
away  from  a  miserable  subject,  through 
which  I  cannot  see  my  way  clearly,  and 
on  which  I  cannot  think  but  with  unut- 
terable pain.  It  is  an  easy  way  of  cut- 
ting the  knot,  to  declare  that  the  rich  are 
the  cause  of  all  the  sufferings  of  the  poor ; 
but  when  we  look  at  the  case  in  all  its 
bearings,  we  shall  see  that  that  is  rank 
nonsense.  And  on  the  other  hand,  it  is 
unquestionable  that  the  rich  are  bound 
to  do  something.  But  what  ?  I  should 
feel  deeply  indebted  to  any  one  who 
would  write  out,  in  a  few  short  and  in- 
telligible sentences,  the  practical  results 
that  are  aimed  at  in  the  "  Song  of  the 


604 


Concerning  People  who  carried   Weight  in  Life.    [November, 


Shirt."  The  misery  and  evil  are  mani- 
fest :  but  tell  us  •whom  to  hang ;  tell  us 
what  to  do ! 

One  heavy  burden  -with  -which  many 
men  are  weighted  for  the  race  of  life  is 
depression  of  spirits.  I  wonder  whether 
this  used  to  be  as  common  in  former  days 
as  it  is  now.  There  was,  indeed,  the 
man  in  Homer  who  walked  by  the  sea- 
shore in  a  very  gloomy  mood ;  but  his 
case  seems  to  have  been  thought  remark- 
able. What  is  it  in  our  modern  mode 
of  Hfe  and  our  infinity  of  cares,  what 
little  thing  is  it  about  the  matter  of  the 
brain  or  the  flow  of  the  blood,  that  makes 
the  difference  between  buoyant  cheerful- 
ness and  deep  depression  '?  I  begin  to 
think  that  almost  all  educated  people,  and 
especially  all  whose  work  is  mental  rath- 
er than  physical,  suffer  more  or  less  from 
this  indescribable  gloom.  And  although 
a  certain  amount  of  sentimental  sadness 
may  possibly  help  the  poet,  or  the  imag- 
inative writer,  to  produce  material  which 
may  be  very  attractive  to  the  young  and 
inexperienced,  I  suppose  it  will  be  ad- 
mitted by  all  that  cheerfulness  and  hope- 
fulness are  noble  and  healthful  stimulants 
to  worthy  effort,  and  that  depression  of 
spirits  does  (so  to  speak)  cut  the  sinews 
with  which  the  average  man  must  do  the 
work  of  life.  You  know  how  lightly  the 
buoyant  heart  carries  people  through  en- 
tanglements and  labors  under  which  the 
desponding  would  break  down,  or  which 
they  never  would  face.  Yet,  in  thinking 
of  the  commonness  of  depressed  spirits, 
even  where  the  mind  is  otherwise  very 
free  from  anything  morbid,  we  should  re- 
member that  there  is  a  strong  temptation 
to  believe  that  this  depression  is  more 
common  and  more  prevalent  than  it  tru- 
ly is.  Sometimes  there  is  a  gloom  which 
overcasts  all  life,  like  that  in  which  James 
Watt  lived  and  worked,  and  served  his 
race  so  nobly,  —  like  that  from  which  the 
gentle,  amiable  poet,  James  Montgomery, 
Buffered  through  his  whole  career.  But 
in  ordinary  cases  the  gloom  is  temporary 
and  transient.  Even  the  most  depress- 
ed are  not  always  so.    Like,  we  know. 


suggests  like  powerfully.  If  you  are 
placed  in  some  peculiar  conjuncture  of 
circumstances,  or  if  you  pass  through 
some  remarkable  scene,  the  present  scene 
or  conjuncture  will  call  up  before  you,  in 
a  way  that  startles  you,  something  like 
itself  which  you  had  long  forgotten,  and 
which  you  would  never  have  remem- 
bered but  for  this  touch  of  some  myste- 
rious spring.  And  accordingly,  a  man 
depressed  in  spirits  thinks  that  he  is  al- 
ways so,  or  at  least  fancies  that  such  de- 
pression has  given  the  color  to  his  life  in 
a  very  much  greater  degree  than  it  ac- 
tually has  done  so.  For  this  dark  season 
wakens  up  the  remembrance  of  many  sim- 
ilar dark  seasons  which  in  more  cheerful 
days  are  quite  forgot ;  and  these  cheerful 
days  drop  out  of  memory  for  the  time. 
Hearing  such  a  man  speak,  if  he  speak 
out  his  heart  to  you,  you  think  him  incon- 
sistent, perhaps  you  think  him  insincere. 
You  think  he  is  saying  more  than  he 
truly  feels.  It  is  not  so ;  he  feels  and 
believes  it  all  at  the  time.  But  he  is 
taking  a  one-sided  view  of  things  ;  he  is 
undergoing  the  misery  of  it  acutely  for 
the  time,  but  by-and-by  he  will  see  things 
from  quite  a  different  point.  A  very 
eminent  man  (there  can  be  no  harm  in 
referring  to  a  case  which  he  himself 
made  so  public)  wrote  and  published 
something  about  his  miserable  home.  He 
was  quite  sincere,  I  do  not  doubt.  He 
thought  so  at  the  time.  He  was  misera- 
ble just  then  ;  and  so,  looking  back  on 
past  years,  he  could  see  nothing  but  mis- 
ery. But  the  case  was  not  really  so,  one 
could  feel  sure.  There  had  been  a  vast 
deal  of  enjoyment  about  his  home  and 
his  lot ;  it  was  forgotten  then.  A  man 
in  very  low  spirits,  reading  over  his  dia- 
ry, somehow  lights  upon  and  dwells  upon 
all  the  sad  and  wounding  things ;  he  in- 
voluntarily skips  the  rest,  or  reads  them 
with  but  faint  perception  of  their  mean- 
ing. In  reading  the  very  Bible,  he  does 
the  like  thing.  He  chances  upon  that 
which  is  in  unison  with  his  present  mood. 
I  think  there  is  no  respect  in  which  this 
great  law  of  the  association  of  ideas  holds 
more  strictly  true  than  in  the  power  of 


1861.] 


Concerning  People  who  carried   Weight  in  Life. 


605 


a  present  state  of  mind,  or  a  present 
state  of  outward  circumstances,  to  bring 
up  vividly  before  us  all  such  states  in 
our  past  history.  We  are  depressed,  we 
are  worried ;  and  when  we  look  back, 
all  our  departed  days  of  worry  and  de- 
pression appear  to  start  up  and  press 
themselves  upon  our  view  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  anything  else ;  so  that  we  are 
ready  to  think  that  we  have  never  been 
otherwise  than  depressed  and  worried  all 
our  life.  But  when  more  cheerful  times 
come,  th*ey  suggest  only  such  times  of 
cheerfulness,  and  no  effort  will  bring 
back  the  depression  vividly  as  when  we 
felt  it.  It  is  not  selfishness  or  heartless- 
ness,  it  is  the  result  of  an  inevitable  law 
of  mind,  that  people  in  happy  circum- 
stances should  resolutely  believe  that  it 
is  a  happy  world  after  all ;  for,  looking 
back,  and  looking  around,  the  mind  re- 
fuses to  take  distinct  note  of  anything 
that  is  not  somewhat  akin  to  its  present 
state.  And  so,  if  any  ordinary  man,  who 
is  not  a  distempered  genius  or  a  great 
fool,  tells  you  that  he  is  always  miserable, 
don't  believe  him.  He  feels  so  now,  but 
he  does  not  always  feel  so.  There  are 
periods  of  brightening  in  the  darkest  lot. 
Very,  very  few  live  in  unvarying  gloom. 
Not  but  that  there  is  something  very  pit- 
iful (by  which  I  mean  deserving  of  pity) 
in  what  may  be  termed  the  Micawber 
style  of  mind,  —  in  the  stage  of  hyster- 
ic oscillations  between  joy  and  misery. 
Thoughtless  readers  of  "  David  Copper- 
field"  laugh  at  Mr.  Micawber,  and  his 
rapid  passages  from  the  depth  of  despair 
to  the  summit  of  happiness,  and  back 
again.  But  if  you  have  seen  or  expe- 
rienced that  morbid  condition,  you  would 
know  that  there  is  more  reason  to  mourn 
over  it  than  to  laugh  at  it.  There  is 
acute  misery  felt  now  and  then;  and 
there  is  a  pervading,  never -departing 
sense  of  the  hollowness  of  the  morbid 
mirth.  It  is  but  a  very  few  degrees  bet- 
ter than  "  moody  madness,  laughing  wild, 
amid  severest  woe."  By  depression  of 
spirits  I  understand  a  dejection  without 
any  cause  that  could  be  stated,  or  from 
causes  which  in  a  healthy  mind  would 


produce  no  such  degree  of  dejection.  No 
doubt,  many  men  can  remember  seasons 
of  dejection  which  was  not  imaginary, 
and  of  anxiety  and  misery  whose  causes 
were  only  too  real.  You  can  remember, 
perhaps,  the  dark  time  in  which  you 
knew  quite  well  what  it  was  that  made 
it  so  dark.  Well,  better  days  have  come. 
That  sorrowful,  wearing  time,  which  ex- 
hausted the  springs  of  life  faster  than  or- 
dinary living  would  have  done,  which 
aged  you  in  heart  and  frame  before  your 
day,  dragged  over,  and  it  is  gone.  You 
carried  heavy  weight,  indeed,  while  it 
lasted.  It  was  but  poor  running  you 
made,  poor  work  you  did,  with  that  fee- 
ble, anxious,  disappointed,  miserable 
heart.  And  you  would  many  a  time 
have  been  thankful  to  creep  into  a  quiet 
grave.  Perhaps  that  season  did  you  good. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  discipline  you  needed. 
Perhaps  it  took  out  your  self-conceit,  and 
made  you  humble.  Perhaps  it  disposed 
you  to  feel  for  the  griefs  and  cares  of 
others,  and  made  you  sympathetic.  Per- 
haps, looking  back  now,  you  can  discern 
the  end  it  served.  And  now  that  it  has 
done  its  work,  and  that  it  only  stings  you 
when  you  look  back,  let  that  time  be 
quite  forgotten  ! 

There  are  men,  and  very  clever  men, 
who  do  the  work  of  life  at  a  disadvan- 
tage, through  tJiis^  that  their  mind  is  a 
machine  fitted  for  doing  well  only  one 
kind  of  work, —  or  that  their  mind  is  a 
machine  which,  though  doing  many  things 
well,  does  some  one  thing,  perhaps  a  con- 
spicuous thing,  very  poorly.  Y'ou  find  it 
hard  to  give  a  man  credit  for  being  pos- 
sessed of  sense  and  talent,  if  you  hear  him 
make  a  speech  at  a  public  dinner,  which 
speech  approaches  the  idiotic  for  its  silli- 
ness and  confusion.  And  the  vulgar  mind 
readily  concludes  that  he  who  does  one 
thing  extremely  ill  can  do  nothing  well, 
and  that  he  who  is  ignorant  on  one  point 
is  ignorant  on  all.  A  friend  of  mine,  a 
country  parson,  on  first  going  to  his  par- 
ish, resolved  to  farm  his  glebe  for  himself. 
A  neighboring  farmer  kindly  offered  the 
parson  to  plough  one  of  his  fields.     The 


606 


Concerning  People  loho  carried   Weight  in  Life.    [Xovember, 


fanner  said  that  he  would  send  his  man 
John  with  a  plough  and  a  pair  of  horses, 
on  a  certain  day.  "  If  ye  're  goin'  about," 
said  the  farmer  to  the  clergyman,  "  John 
■will  be  unco'  weel  pleased,  if  you  speak 
to  him,  and  say  it  's  a  fine  day,  or  the 
like  o'  that ;  but  dinna,"  said  the  farmer, 
with  much  solemnity,  "dinna  say  ony- 
thing  to  him  aboot  ploughin'  and  sawin' ; 
for  John,"  he  added,  "  is  a  stupid  body, 
but  he  has  been  ploughin'  and  sawin'  all 
his  life,  and  he  '11  see  in  a  minute  that  ye 
ken  naething  aboot  ploughin'  and  sawin'. 
And  then,"  said  the  sagacious  old  farmer, 
with  extreme  earnestness,  "  if  he  comes 
to  think  that  ye  ken  naething  aboot 
ploughin'  and  sawin',  he  '11  think  that  ye 
ken  naething  aboot  onything ! "  Yes,  it 
is  natural  to  us  all  to  think,  that,  if  the 
machine  breaks  down  at  that  work  in 
which  we  are  competent  to  test  it,  then 
the  machine  cannot  do  any  work  at  all. 

If  you  have  a  strong  current  of  water, 
you  may  turn  it  into  any  channel  you 
please,  and  make  it  do  any  work  you 
please.  With  equal  energy  and  success 
it  will  flow  north  or  south ;  it  will  turn  a 
corn-mill,  or  a  threshing-machine,  or  a 
grindstone.  Many  people  live  under  a 
vague  impression  that  the  human  mind 
is  like  that.  They  think,  —  Here  is  so 
much  ability,  so  much  energy,  which  may 
be  turned  in  any  direction,  and  made  to 
do  any  work ;  and  they  are  surprised  to 
find  that  the  power,  available  and  great 
for  one  kind  of  work,  is  worth  nothing 
for  another.  A  man  very  clever  at  one 
thing  is  positively  weak  and  stupid  at 
another  thing.  A  very  good  judge  may 
be  a  wretchedly  bad  joker  ;  and  he  must 
go  through  his  career  at  this  disadvan- 
tage, that  people,  finding  him  silly  at  the 
thing  they  are  able  to  estimate,  find  it  hard 
to  believe  that  he  is  not  silly  at  every- 
thing. I  know,  for  myself,  that  it  would 
not  be  right  that  the  Premier  should  re- 
quest me  to  look  out  for  a  suitable  Chan- 
cellor. I  am  not  competent  to  appreciate 
the  depth  of  a  man's  knowledge  of  equi- 
ty ;  by  which  I  do  not  mean  justice,  but 
chancery  law.  But,  though  quite  unable 
to  understand  how  great  a  Chancellor 


Lord  Eldon  was,  I  am  quite  able  to  esti- 
mate how  great  a  poet  he  was,  also  how 
great  a  wit.  Here  is  a  poem  by  that 
eminent  person.  Doubtless  he  regarded 
it  as  a  wonder  of  happy  versification,  as 
well  as  instinct  with  the  most  convulsing 
fun.  It  is  intended  to  set  out  in  a  metri- 
cal form  the  career  of  a  certain  judge, 
who  went  up  as  a  poor  lad  from  Scotland 
to  England,  but  did  well  at  the  bar,  and 
ultimately  found  his  place  upon  the  bench. 
Here  is  Lord  Chancellor  Eldon's  humor- 
ous poem :  — 

"  James  Allan  Parke 
Came  naked  stark 

From  Scotland: 
But  he  got  clothes, 
Like  other  beaux, 

In  England ! " 

Now  the  fact  that  Lord  Eldon  wrote  that 
poem,  and  valued  it  highly,  would  lead 
some  folk  to  suppose  that  Lord  Eldon 
was  next  door  to  an  idiot.  And  a  good 
many  other  things  which  that  Chancellor 
did,  such  as  his  quotations  from  Scripture 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  his  at- 
tempts to  convince  that  assemblage  (when 
Attorney-General)  that  Napoleon  I.  was 
the  Apocalyptic  Beast  or  the  Little  Horn, 
certainly  point  towards  the  same  conclu- 
sion. But  the  conclusion,  as  a  general 
one,  would  be  wrong.  No  doubt,  Lord 
Eldon  was  a  wise  and  sagacious  man  as 
judge  and  statesman,  though  as  wit  and 
poet  he  was  almost  an  idiot.  So  with 
other  great  men.  It  is  easy  to  remem- 
ber occasions  on  which  great  men  have 
done  very  foolish  things.  There  never 
was  a  truer  hero  nor  a  greater  command- 
er than  Lord  Nelson  ;  but  in  some  things 
he  was  merely  an  awkward,  overgrown 
midshipman.  But  then,  let  us  remember 
that  a  locomotive  engine,  though  excel- 
lent at  running,  would  be  a  poor  hand  at 
flying.  That  is  not  its  vocation.  The 
engine  will  draw  fifteen  heavy  carriages 
fifty  miles  in  an  hour ;  and  that  remains 
as  a  noble  feat,  even  though  it  be  as- 
certained that  the  engine  could  not  jump 
over  a  brook  which  would  be  cleared  ea- 
sily by  the  veriest  screw.  We  all  see  this. 


1861.] 


Concerning  People  who  carried  Weight  in  Life. 


607 


But  many  of  us  have  a  confused  idea  that 
a  great  and  clever  man  is  (so  to  speak)  a 
locomotive  that  can  fly;  and  when  it  is 
proved  that  he  cannot  fly,  then  we  begin 
to  doubt  whether  he  can  even  run.  We 
think  he  should  be  good  at  everything, 
whether  in  his  own  line  or  not.  And  he 
is  set  at  a  disadvantage,  particularly  in 
the  judgment  of  vulgar  and  stupid  peo- 
ple, when  it  is  clearly  ascertained  that  at 
some  things  he  is  very  inferior.  I  have 
heard  of  a  very  eminent  preacher  who 
sunk  considerably  (even  as  regards  his 
preaching)  in  the  estimation  of  a  certain 
family,  because  it  appeared  that  he  play- 
ed very  badly  at  bowls.  And  we  all 
know  that  occasionally  the  Premier  al- 
ready mentioned  reverses  the  vulgar  er- 
ror, and  in  appointing  men  to  great  places 
is  guided  by  an  axiom  which  amounts  to 
just  this :  this  locomotive  can  run  well, 
therefore  it  will  fly  well.  This  man  has 
filled  a  certain  position  well,  therefore  let 
us  appoint  him  to  a  position  entirely  dif- 
ferent ;  no  doubt,  he  will  do  well  there 
too.  Here  is  a  clergyman  who  has  edit- 
ed certain  Greek  plays  admirably;  let 
us  make  him  a  bishop. 

It  may  be  remarked  here,  that  the  men 
who  have  attained  the  greatest  success 
in  the  race  of  life  have  generally  carried 
weight.  Nitor  in  adversum  might  be  the 
motto  of  many  a  man  besides  Burke.  It 
seems  to  be  almost  a  general  rule,  that 
the  raw  material  out  of  which  the  finest 
fabrics  are  made  should  look  very  little 
like  these,  to  start  with.  It  was  a  stam- 
merer, of  uncommanding  mien,  who  be- 
came the  greatest  orator  of  graceful 
Greece.  I  believe  it  is  admitted  that 
Chalmers  was  the  most  efiective  preach- 
er, perhaps  the  most  telling  speaker,  that 
Britain  has  seen  for  at  least  a  century ; 
yet  his  aspect  was  not  commanding,  his 
gestures  were  awkward,  his  voice  was 
bad,  and  his  accent  frightful.  He  talked 
of  an  oppning  when  he  meant  an  open- 
ing, and  he  read  out  the  text  of  one  of 
his  noblest  sermons,  "  He  that  is  fulthy, 
let  him  be  fulthy  stull."  Yet  who  ever 
thought  of  these  things  after  hearing  the 


good  man  for  ten  minutes?  Ay,  load 
Eclipse  with  what  extra  pounds  you 
might,  Eclipse  would  always  be  first  I 
And,  to  descend  to  the  race-horse,  he 
had  four  white  legs,  white  to  the  knees ; 
and  he  ran  more  awkwardly  than  racer 
ever  did,  with  his  head  between  his  fore- 
legs, close  to  the  ground,  like  a  pig.  Alex- 
ander, Napoleon,  and  Wellington  were 
all  little  men,  in  places  where  a  com- 
manding presence  would  have  been  of 
no  small  value.  A  most  disagreeably  af- 
fected manner  has  not  prevented  a  bar- 
rister with  no  special  advantages  from 
rising  with  general  approval  to  the  high- 
est places  which  a  barrister  can  fill.  A 
hideous  little  wretch  has  appeared  for 
trial  in  a  criminal  court,  having  succeed- 
ed in  marrying  seven  wives  at  once.  A 
painful  hesitation  has  not  hindered  a  cer- 
tain eminent  person  from  being  one  of 
the  principal  speakers  in  the  British  Par- 
liament for  many  years.  Yes,  even  dis- 
advantages never  overcome  have  not  suf- 
ficed to  hold  in  obscurity  men  who  were 
at  once  able  and  fortunate.  But  some- 
times the  disadvantage  was  thoroughly 
overcome.  Sometimes  it  served  no  oth- 
er end  than  to  draw  to  one  point  the  at- 
tention and  the  efforts  of  a  determined 
will ;  and  that  matter  in  regard  to  which 
Nature  seemed  to  have  said  that  a  man 
should  fall  short  became  the  thing  in 
which  he  attained  unrivalled  perfection. 

A  heavy  drag-weight  upon  the  powers 
of  some  men  is  the  uncertainty  of  their 
powers.  The  man  has  not  his  powers 
at  command.  His  mind  is  a  capricious 
thing,  that  works  when  it  pleases,  and 
will  not  work  except  when  it  pleases.  I 
am  not  thinking  now  of  what  to  many  is 
a  sad  disadvantage :  that  nervous  trepi- 
dation which  cannot  be  reasoned  away, 
and  which  often  deprives  them  of  the  full 
use  of  their  mental  abilities  just  when 
they  are  most  needed.  It  is  a  vast  thing 
in  a  man's  favor,  that  whatever  he  can 
do  he  should  be  able  to  do  at  any  time, 
and  to  do  at  once.  For  want  of  coolness 
of  mind,  and  that  readiness  which  gener- 
ally goes  with  it,  many  a  man  cannot  do 


608 


Concerning  People  who  carried   Weight  in  Life.     [November, 


himself  justice;  and  in  a  deliberative 
assembly  he  may  be  entirely  beaten  by 
some  flippant  person  who  has  all  his 
money  (so  to  speak)  in  his  pocket,  while 
the  other  must  send  to  the  bank  for  his. 
How  many  people  can  think  next  day, 
or  even  a  few  minutes  after,  of  the  pre- 
cise thing  they  ought  to  have  said,  but 
which  would  not  come  at  the  time !  But 
very  frequently  the  thing  is  of  no  value, 
unless  it  come  at  the  time  when  it  is 
wanted.  Coming  next  day,  it  is  like  the 
offer  of  a  thick  fur  great-coat  on  a  swel- 
tering day  in  July.  You  look  at  the 
wrap,  and  say,  "  Oh,  if  I  could  but  have 
had  you  on  the  December  night  when  I 
went  to  London  by  the  limited  mail,  and 
was  nearly  starved  to  death!"  But  it 
seems  as  if  the  mind  must  be,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  capricious  in  its  action.  Ca- 
price, or  what  looks  like  it,  appears  of 
necessity  to  go  with  complicated  machin- 
ery, even  material.  The  more  compli- 
cated a  machine  is,  the  liker  it  grows  to 
mind,  in  the  matter  of  uncertainty  and 
apparent  caprice  of  action.  The  simplest 
machine  —  say  a  pipe  for  conveying  wa- 
ter—  will  always  act  in  precisely  the 
same  way.  And  two  such  pipes,  if  of 
the  same  dimensions,  and  subjected  to 
the  same  pressure,  will  always  convey 
the  self-same  quantities.  But  go  to  more 
advanced  machines.  Take  two  clocks 
or  two  locomotive  engines,  and  though 
these  are  made  in  all  respects  exactly 
alike,  they  will  act  (I  can  answer  at  least 
for  the  locomotive  engines)  quite  differ- 
ently. One  locomotive  will  swallow  a 
vast  quantity  of  water  at  once ;  another 
must  be  fed  by  driblets ;  no  one  can  say 
why.  One  engine  is  a  facsimile  of  the 
other ;  yet  each  has  its  character  and  its 
peculiarities  as  truly  as  a  man  has.  You 
need  to  know  your  engine's  temper  be- 
fore driving  it,  just  as  much  as  you  need 
to  know  that  of  your  horse,  or  that  of 
your  friend.  I  know,  of  course,  there  is 
a  mechanical  reason  for  this  seeming  ca- 
price, if  you  could  trace  the  reason.  But 
not  one  man  in  a  thousand  could  trace 
out  the  reason.  And  the  phenomenon, 
as  it  presses  itself  upon  us,  really  amounts 


to  this :  that  very  complicated  machinery 
appears  to  have  a  will  of  its  own,  —  ap- 
pears to  exercise  something  of  the  nature 
of  choice.  But  there  is  no  machine  so 
capricious  as  the  human  mind.  The  great 
poet  who  wrote  those  beautiful  verses 
could  not  do  that  every  day.  A  good 
deal  more  of  what  he  writes  is  poor 
enough  ;  and  many  days  he  could  not 
write  at  all.  By  long  habit  the  mind 
may  be  made  capable  of  being  put  in 
harness  daily  for  the  humbler  task  of 
producing  prose ;  but  you  cannot  say, 
when  you  harness  it  in  the  morning,  how 
far  or  at  what  rate  it  will  run  that  day. 

Go  and  see  a  great  organ  of  which 
you  have  been  told.  Touch  it,  and  you 
hear  the  noble  tones  at  once.  The  organ 
can  produce  them  at  any  time.  But  go 
and  see  a  great  man  ;  touch  him,  —  that 
is,  get  him  to  begin  to  talk.  You  will  be 
much  disappointed,  if  you  expect,  certain- 
ly, to  hear  anything  like  his  book  or  his 
poem.  A  great  man  is  not  a  man  who  is 
always  saying  great  things,  or  who  is  al- 
ways able  to  say  great  things.  He  is  a 
man  who  on  a  few  occasions  has  said 
great  things ;  who  on  the  coming  of  a 
sufficient  occasion  may  possibly  say  great 
things  again  ;  but  the  staple  of  his  talk  is 
commonplace  enough.  Here  is  a  point 
of  difference  from  machinery,  with  all 
machinery's  apparent  caprice.  You  could 
not  say,  as  you  pointed  to  a  steam-engine, 
"  The  usual  power  of  that  engine  is  two 
hundred  horses  ;  but  once  or  twice  it  has 
surprised  us  all  by  working  up  to  two 
thousand."  No ;  the  engine  is  always  of 
nearly  the  power  of  two  thousand  horses, 
if  it  ever  is.  But  what  we  have  been 
supposing  as  to  the  engine  is  just  what 
many  men  have  done.  Poe  wrote  "  The 
Raven  " ;  he  was  working  then  up  to  two 
thousand  horse  power.  But  he  wrote 
abundance  of  poor  stuff,  working  at  about 
twenty-five.  Read  straight  through  the 
volumes  of  Wordsworth,  and  I  think  you 
will  find  traces  of  the  engine  having  work- 
ed at  many  different  powers,  varying  from 
twenty-five  horses  or  less  up  two  thousand 
or  more.  Go  and  hear  a  really  great 
preacher,  when   he  is  preaching  in  his 


1861.] 


Concerning  People  who  carried  Weight  in  Life. 


609 


own  church  upon  a  common  Sunday, 
and  possibly  you  may  hear  a  very  ordi- 
nary sermon.  I  have  heard  Mr.  Melvill 
preach  very  poorly.  You  must  not  ex- 
pect to  find  people  always  at  their  best. 
It  is  a- very  unusual  thing  that  even  the 
ablest  men  should  be  like  Burke,  who 
could  not  talk  with  an  intelligent  stran- 
ger for  five  minutes  without  convincing 
the  stranger  that  he  had  talked  for  five 
minutes  with  a  great  man.  And  it  is  an 
awful  thing,  when  some  clever  youth  is 
introduced  to  some  local  poet  who  has 
been  told  how  greatly  the  clever  youth 
admires  him,  and  what  vast  expectations 
the  clever  youth  has  formed  of  his  con- 
versation, and  when  the  local  celebrity 
makes  a  desperate  effort  to  talk  up  to  the 
expectations  formed  of  him.  I  have  wit- 
nessed such  a  scene ;  and  I  can  sincerely 
say  that  I  could  not  previously  have  be- 
lieved that  the  local  celebrity  could  have 
made  such  a  fool  of  himself  He  was  re- 
solved to  show  that  he  deserved  his  fame, 
and  to  show  that  the  mind  which  had  pro- 
duced those  lovely  verses  in  the  country 
newspaper  could  not  stoop  to  common- 
place things. 

Undue  sensitiveness,  and  a  too  lowly 
estimate  of  their  own  powers,  hang  heav- 
ily upon  some  men,— probably  upon  more 
men  than  one  would  imagine.  I  believe 
that  many  a  man  whom  you  would  take 
to  be  ambitious,  pushing,  and  self-com- 
placent, is  ever  pressed  with  a  sad  con- 
viction of  inferiority,  and  wishes  nothing 
more  than  quietly  to  slip  through  life.  It 
would  please  and  satisfy  him,  if  he  could 
but  be  assured  that  he  is  just  like  other 
people.  You  may  remember  a  touch  of 
nature  (that  is,  of  some  people's  nature) 
in  Burns  ;  you  remember  the  simple  ex- 
ultation of  the  peasant  mother,  when  her 
daughter  gets  a  sweetheart :  she  is  "  well 
pleased  to  see  Jier  bairn  respeckit  like  the 
lave"  that  is,  like  the  other  girls  round. 
And  undue  humility,  perhaps  even  befit- 
ting humility,  holds  back  sadly  in  the  race 
of  life.  It  is  recorded  that  a  weaver  in  a 
certain  village  in  Scotland  was  wont  dai- 
ly to  offer  a  singular  petition ;  he  prayed 

VOL.   VIII.  39 


daily  and  fervently  for  a  better  opinion 
of  himself  Yes,  a  firm  conviction  of 
one's  own  importance  is  a  great  help  in 
life.  It  gives  dignity  of  bearing ;  it  does 
(so  to  speak)  lift  the  horse  over  many  a 
fence  at  which  one  with  a  less  confident 
heart  would  have  broken  down.  But  the 
man  who  estimates  himself  and  his  place 
humbly  and  justly  will  be  ready  to  shrink 
aside,  and  let  men  of  greater  impudence 
and  not  greater  desert  step  before  him. 
I  have  often  seen,  with  a  sad  heart,  in 
the  case  of  working  people  that  manner, 
difficult  to  describe,  which  comes  of  be- 
ing what  we  in  Scotland  sometimes  call 
sair  Jiadden  down.  I  have  seen  the  like 
in  educated  people,  too.  And  not  very 
many  will  take  the  trouble  to  seek  out 
and  to  draw  out  the  modest  merit  that 
keeps  itself  in  the  shade.  The  energetic, 
successful  people  of  this  world  are  too 
busy  in  pushing  each  for  himself  to  have 
time  to  do  that.  You  will  find  that  peo- 
ple with  abundant  confidence,  people  who 
assume  a  good  deal,  are  not  unfrequently 
taken  at  their  own  estimate  of  themselves. 
I  have  seen  a  Queen's  Counsel  walk  into 
court,  after  the  case  in  which  he  was  en- 
gaged had  been  conducted  so  far  by  his 
junior,  and  conducted  as.  well  as  mortal 
could  conduct  it.  But  it  was  easy  to 
see  that  the  complacent  air  of  superior 
strength  with  which  the  Queen's  Counsel 
took  the  management  out  of  his  junior's 
hands  conveyed  to  the  jury,  (a  common 
jury,)  the  belief  that  things  were  now  to 
be  managed  in  quite  different  and  vastly 
better  style.  And  have  you  not  known^ 
such  a  thing  as  that  a  family,  not  a  whit 
better,  wealthier,  or  more  respectable 
than  all  the  rest  in  the  little  country 
town  or  the  country  parish,  do  yet,  by 
carrying  their  heads  higher,  (no  mortal; 
could  say  why,)  gradually  elbow  them- 
selves into  a  place  of  admitted  social  su- 
periority ?  Everybody  knows  exactly 
what  they  are,  and  from  what  they  have 
sprung ;  but  somehow,  by  resolute  as- 
sumption, by  a  quiet  air  of  being  better- 
than  their  neighbors,  they  draw  ahead 
of  them,  and  attain  the  glorious  advan- 
tage of  one  step  higher  on  the  delicately 


610 


Concerning  People  who  carried  Weight  in  Life.     [November, 


graduated  social  ladder  of  the  district. 
Now  it  is  manifest,  that,  if  such  people 
had  sense  to  see  their  true  position,  and 
the  absurdity  of  their  pretensions,  they 
would  assuredly  not  have  gained  that  ad- 
vantage, whatever  it  may  be  worth. 

But  sense  and  feeling  are  sometimes 
burdens  in  the  race  of  life  ;  that  is,  they 
sometimes  hold  a  man  back  from  grasp- 
ing material  advantages  which  he  might 
have  grasped,  had  he  not  been  prevented 
by  the  possession  of  a  certain  measure  of 
common  sense  and  right  feeling.  I  doubt 
not,  my  friend,  that  you  have  acquaint- 
ances who  can  do  things  which  you  could 
not  do  for  your  life,  and  who  by  doing 
these  things  push  their  way  in  life.  They 
ask  for  what  they  want,  and  never  let  a 
chance  go  by  them.  And  though  they 
may  meet  many  rebuffs,  they  sometimes 
make  a  successful  venture.  Impudence 
sometimes  attains  to  a  pitch  of  sublimity ; 
and  at  that  point  it  has  produced  a  very 
great  impression  upon  many  men.  The 
incapable  person  who  started  for  a  pro- 
fessorship has  sometimes  got  it.  The 
man  who,  amid  the  derision  of  the  coun- 
ty, published  his  address  to  the  electors, 
has  occasionally  got  into  the  House  of 
Commons.  The  vulgar  half- educated 
preacher,  who  without  any  introduction 
asked  a  patron  for  a  vacant  living  in  the 
Church,  has  now  and  then  got  the  living. 
And  however  unfit  you  may  be  for  a 
place,  and  however  discreditable  may 
have  been  the  means  by  which  you  got 
it,  once  you  have  actually  held  it  for  two 
or  three  years  people  come  to  acquiesce 
in  your  holding  it.  They  accept  the  fact 
that  you  are  there,  just  as  we  accept  the 
fact  that  any  other  evil  exists  in  this 
world,  without  asking  why,  except  on 
very  special  occasions.  I  believe,  too, 
that,  in  the  matter  of  worldly  preferment, 
there  is  too  much  fatalism  in  many  good 
men.  They  have  a  vague  trust  that  Prov- 
idence will  do  more  than  it  has  promised. 
They  are  ready  to  think,  that,  if  it  is  God's 
will  that  they  are  to  gain  such  a  prize,  it 
will  be  sure  to  come  their  way  without 
their  pushing.  That  is  a  mistake.  Sup- 
pose you  apply  the  same  reasoning  to 


your  dinner.  Suppose  you  sit  still  in 
your  study  and  say,  "If  I  am  to  have 
dinner  to-day,  it  will  come  without  effort 
of  mine  ;  and  if  I  am  not  to  have  dinner 
to-day,  it  will  not  come  by  any  effort  of 
mine  ;  so  here  I  sit  still  and  do  nothing." 
Is  not  that  absurd  ?  Yet  that  is  what 
many  a  wise  and  good  man  practically 
says  about  the  place  in  life  which  would 
suit  him,  and  which  would  make  him  hap- 
py. Not  Turks  and  Hindoos  alone  have 
a  tendency  to  believe  in  their  Kismet. 
It  is  human  to  believe  in  that.  And  we 
grasp  at  every  event  that  seems  to  favor 
the  belief.  The  other  evening,  in  the 
twilight,  I  passed  two  respectable-looking 
women  who  seemed  like  domestic  ser- 
vants ;  and  I  caught  one  sentence  which 
one  said  to  the  other  with  great  apparent 
faith.  "  You  see,"  she  said,  "  if  a  thing  's 
to  come  your  way,  it  '11  no  gang  by  ye  ! " 
It  was  in  a  crowded  street ;  but  if  it  had 
been  in  my  country  parish,  where  every- 
one knew  me,  I  should  certainly  have 
stopped  the  women,  and  told  them,  that, 
though  what  they  said  was  quite  true,  I 
feared  they  were  understanding  it  wrong- 
ly, and  that  the  firm  belief  we  all  hold  in 
God's  Providence  which  reaches  to  all 
events,  and  in  His  sovereignty  which 
orders  all  things,  should  be  used  to  help 
us  to  be  resigned,  after  we  have  done 
our  best  and  failed,  but  should  never  be 
used  as  an  excuse  for  not  doing  our  best. 
When  we  have  set  our  mind  on  any 
honest  end,  let  us  seek  to  compass  it  by 
every  honest  means  ;  and  if  we  fail  after 
having  used  every  honest  means,  then 
let  us  fall  back  on  the  comfortable  belief 
that  things  are  ordered  by  the  Wisest 
and  Kindest ;  then  is  the  time  for  the 
Fiat  Voluntas  Tua. 

You  would  not  wish,  my  friend,  to  be 
deprived  of  common  sense  and  of  delicate 
feeling,  even  though  you  could  be  quite 
sure  that  once  that  drag-weight  was  tak- 
en off,  you  would  spring  forward  to  the 
van,  and  make  such  running  in  the  race 
of  life  as  you  never  made  before.  Still, 
you  cannot  help  looking  with  a  certain 
interest  upon  those  people  who,  by  the 


1861.] 


Concerning  People  who  carried  Weight  in  Life. 


611 


enabled  to  do  things  and  say  things  which 
you  never  could.  I  have  sometimes  look- 
ed with  no  small  curiosity  upon  the  kind 
of  man  who  will  come  uninvited,  and 
without  warning  of  his  approach,  to  stay 
at  another  man's  house :  who  will  stay  on, 
quite  comfortable  and  unmoved,  though 
seeing  plainly  he  is  not  wanted  :  who 
will  announce,  on  arriving,  that  his  visit 
is  to  be  for  three  days,  and  who  will 
then,  without  farther  remark,  and  with- 
out invitation  of  any  kind,  remain  for  a 
month  or  six  weeks  :  and  all  the  while 
sit  down  to  dinner  every  day  with  a  per- 
fectly easy  and  unembarrassed  manner. 
You  and  I,  my  reader,  would  rather  live 
on  much  less  than  sixpence  a  day  than 
do  all  this.  We  could  not  do  it.  But 
some  people  not  merely  can  do  it,  but  can 
do  it  without  any  appearance  of  effort. 
Oh,  if  the  people  who  are  victimized  by 
these  horse-leeches  of  society  could  but 
gain  a  little  of  the  thickness  of  skin  which 
characterizes  the  horse-leeches,  and  bid 
them  be  off,  and  not  return  again  till 
they  are  invited  !  To  the  same  pachy- 
dermatous class  belong  those  individuals 
who  will  put  all  sorts  of  questions  as  to 
the  private  aflfairs  of  other  people,  but 
carefully  shy  off  from  any  similar  confi- 
dence as  to  their  own  affairs :  also  those 
individuals  who  borrow  small  sums  of 
money  and  never  repay  them,  but  go  on 
borrowing  till  the  small  sums  amount  to 
a  good  deal.  To  the  same  class  may  be 
referred  the  persons  who  lay  themselves 
out  for  saying  disagreeable  things,  the 
"  candid  friends  "  of  Canning,  the  "  peo- 
ple who  speak  their  mind,"  who  form 
such  pests  of  society.  To  find  fault  is  to 
right-feeling  men  a  very  painful  thing ; 
but  some  take  to  the  work  with  avidity 
and  delight.  And  while  people  of  culti- 
vation shrink,  with  a  delicate  intuition, 
from  saying  anything  which  may  give  pain 
or  cause  uneasiness  to  others,  there  are 
others  who  are  ever  painfully  treading 
upon  the  moral  corns  of  all  around  them. 
Sometimes  this  is  done  designedly :  as  by 
Mr.  Snarling,  who  by  long  practice  has 
attained  the  power  of  hinting  and  insin- 
uating, in  the  course  of  a  forenoon  call, 


as  many  unpleasant  things  as  may  ger- 
minate into  a  crop  of  ill-tempers  and  wor- 
ries which  shall  make  the  house  at  which 
he  called  uncomfortable  all  that  day. 
Sometimes  it  is  done  unawares,  as  by 
Mr.  Boor,  who,  through  pure  ignorance 
and  coarseness,  is  always  bellowing  out 
things  which  it  is  disagreeable  to  some 
one,  or  to  several,  to  hear.  Which  was 
it,  I  wonder.  Boor  or  Snarling,  who  once 
reached  the  dignity  of  the  mitre,  and 
who  at  prayers  in  his  house  uttered  this 
supplication  on  behalf  of  a  lady  visitor 
who  was  kneeling  beside  him :  "  Bless 

our  friend,  Mrs. :  give  her  a  little 

more  common  sense  ;  and  teach  her  to 
dress  a  little  less  like  a  tragedy  queen 
than  she  does  at  present "  ? 

But  who  shall  reckon  up  the  countless 
circumstances  which  lie  like  a  depressing 
burden  on  the  energies  of  men,  and  make 
them  work  at  that  disadvantage  which 
we  have  thought  of  under  the  fifjure  of 
carrying  weight  in  life  .^  There  are  men 
who  carry  weight  in  a  damp,  marshy 
neighborhood,  who,  amid  bracing  moun- 
tain air  might  have  done  things  which 
now  they  will  never  do.  There  are  men 
who  carry  weight  in  an  uncomfortable 
house :  in  smoky  chimneys :  in  a  study 
with  a  dismal  look-out :  in  distance  from 
a  railway-station  :  in  ten  miles  between 
them  and  a  bookseller's  shop.  Give  an- 
other hundred  a  year  of  income,  and  the 
poor  struggling  parson  who  preaches  dull 
sermons  will  astonish  you  by  the  talent 
he  will  exhibit  when  his  mind  is  freed 
from  the  dismal  depressing  influence  of 
ceaseless  scheming  to  keep  the  wolf  from 
the  door.  Let  the  poor  little  sick  child 
grow  strong  and  well,  and  with  how  much 
better  heart  will  its  father  face  the  work 
of  life  !  Let  the  clergyman  who  preach- 
ed, in  a  spiritless  enough  way,  to  a  hand- 
ful of  uneducated  rustics,  be  placed  in  a 
charge  where  weekly  he  has  to  address 
a  large  cultivated  congregation,  and, 
with  the  new  stimulus,  latent  powers 
may  manifest  themselves  which  no  one 
fancied  he  possessed,  and  he  may  prove 
quite  an  eloquent  and  attractive  preach- 


612  WTiy  has  the  North  felt  aggrieved  with  England'^   [November, 


er.  A  dull,  quiet  man,  whom  you  es-* 
teemed  as  a  blockhead,  may  suddenly 
be  valued  very  differently  when  circum- 
stances unexpectedly  call  out  the  solid 
qualities  he  possesses,  unsuspected  be- 
fore. A  man  devoid  of  brilliancy  may 
on  occasion  show  that  he  possesses  great 
good  sense,  or  that  he  has  the  power  of 
sticking  to  his  task  in  spite  of  discourage- 
ment. Let  a  man  be  placed  where  dog- 
ged perseverance  will  stand  him  in  stead, 
and  you  may  see  what  he  can  do  when 
he  has  but  a  chance.  The  especial 
weight  which  has  held  some  men  back, 
the  thing  which  kept  them  from  doing 
great  things  and  attaining  great  fame, 
has  been  just  this :  that  they  were  not 
able  to  say  or  to  write  what  they  have 
thought  and  felt.  And,  indeed,  a  great 
poet  is  nothing  more  than  the  one  man  in 
a  million  who  has  the  gift  to  express  that 
which  has  been  in  the  mind  and  heart 
of  multitudes.  If  even  the  most  com- 
monplace of  human  beings  could  write 
all  the  poetry  he  has  felt,  he  would  pro- 
duce something  that  would  go  straight  to 
the  hearts  of  many. 

It  is  touching  to  witness  the  indications 
and  vestiges  of  sweet  and  admirable 
things  which  have  been  subjected  to  a 
weight  which  has  entirely  crushed  them 
down,  —  things  which  would  have  come 
out  into  beauty  and  excellence,  if  they 
had  been  allowed  a  chance.  You  may 
witness  one  of  the  saddest  of  all  the  loss- 


es of  Nature  in  various  old  maids.  What 
kind  hearts  are  there  running  to  waste ! 
What  pure  and  gentle  affections  blossom 
to  be  blighted  !  I  dare  say  you  have 
heard  a  young  lady  of  more  than  forty 
sing,  and  you  have  seen  her  eyes  fill 
with  tears  at  the  pathos  of  a  very  com- 
monplace verse.  Have  you  not  thought 
that  there  was  the  indication  of  a  tender 
heart  which  might  have  made  some  good 
man  happy,  and,  in  doing  so,  made  her- 
self happy,  too  ?  But  it  was  not  to  be. 
Still,  it  is  sad  to  think  that  sometimes 
upon  cats  and  dogs  there  should  be  wast- 
ed the  affection  of  a  kindly  human  being ! 
And  you  know,  too,  how  often  the  fairest 
promise  of  human  excellence  is  never 
suffered  to  come  to  fruit.  You  must  look 
upon  gravestones  to  find  the  names  of 
those  who  promised  to  be  the  best  and 
noblest  specimens  of  the  race.  They  died 
in  early  youth, —  perhaps  in  early  child- 
hood. Their  pleasant  faces,  their  singu- 
lar words  and  ways,  remain,  not  often 
talked  of,  in  the  memories  of  subdued 
parents,  or  of  brothers  and  sisters  now 
grown  old,  but  never  forgetting  how  that 
one  of  the  family,  that  was  as  the  flower 
of  the  flock,  was  the  first  to  fade.  It  has 
been  a  proverbial  saying,  you  know,  even 
from  heathen  ages,  that  those  whom  the 
gods  love  die  young.  It  is  but  an  infe- 
rior order  of  human  beings  that  makes 
the  living  succession  to  carry  on  the  hu- 
man race. 


WHY  HAS  THE   NORTH   FELT  AGGRIEVED   WITH 
ENGLAND? 


We  have  chosen  a  guarded  and  pas- 
sionless wording  for  a  topic  on  which  we 
wish  to  offer  a  few  frankly  spoken,  but 
equally  passionless  remarks.  With  the 
bitterness  and  venom  and  exaggeration 
of  statement  which  both  English  and 
American  papers  have  interchanged  in 
reference  to  matters  of  opinion  and  mat- 


ters of  feeling  connected  with  our  na- 
tional troubles  we  do  not  now  intermed- 
dle. We  would  not  imitate  it :  we  regret 
it,  and  on  our  own  side  we  are  ashamed 
of  it.  We  have  read  editorials  and  com- 
munications in  our  own  papers  so  grossly 
vituperative  and  stinging  in  the  rancor 
of  their  spirit,  that  it  would  not  have 


1861.] 


Wh^  has  the  North  felt  aggrieved  with  England'^ 


613 


surprised  us,  if  some  Englishmen,  of  a 
certain  class,  had  organized  a  hostile  as- 
sociation against  us  in  revenge  for  our 
truculent  defiance.  The  real  spirit  of 
bullyism,  of  the  cockpit  and  the  pugil- 
istic ring,  has  been  exhibited  in  this  in- 
terchange of  newspaper  opinion.  The 
more  is  the  reason  why  we  should  not 
overlook  or  be  blind  to  the  real  griev- 
ances in  the  case,  nor  fail  to  give  ex- 
pression to  them  in  the  strongest  way  of 
which  their  emphatic,  but  unembittered, 
statement  will  admit.  Whether  the  Lon- 
don "  Times "  is  or  is  not  an  authorita- 
tive vehicle  for  the  utterance  of  average 
English  opinion,  and  an  index,  in  its 
general  tone,  of  the  prevailing  sentiment 
of  that  people,  is  a  question  which,  so  far 
from  wishing  to  decide,  we  must  decline 
to  entertain,  as  mainly  irrelevant  to  our 
present  purpose.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
however,  if  we  did  accept  that  print  as 
an  authority  and  a  standard  in  English 
opinion,  we  should  throw  more  of  tem- 
per than  we  hope  to  prevent  escaping 
through  our  words  into  the  remarks 
which  are  to  follow.  That  paper  evi- 
dently represents  the  opinion  of  one 
class,  perhaps  of  more  than  one  class  of 
Englishmen.  An  intelligent  American 
reader  of  its  comments  on  our  affairs 
can  always  read  it,  as  even  the  best-in- 
formed Englishman  cannot,  with  the  skill 
and  ability  to  discern  its  spirit,  often 
covertly  mean,  and  to  detect  its  mis- 
representations, some  of  the  grossest  of 
which  are  made  the  basis  of  its  argu- 
ments and  inferences.  From  the  very 
opening  of  our  strife  to  the  last  issue 
of  that  print  which  has  crossed  the  wa- 
ter, its  comments  and  records  relatins 
to  our  affairs  have  presented  a  most 
ingenious  and  mischievous  combination 
of  everything  false,  ill-tempered,  ma- 
lignant, and  irritating.  It  is  at  pres- 
ent exercising  itself  upon  the  financial 
arrangements  of  our  Government,  and 
uttering  prophecies,  falsified  before  they 
have  come  to  our  knowledge,  about  the 
inability  or  the  unwillingness  of  our  loy- 
al people  to  furnish  the  necessary  mon- 
ey. 


But  enough  of  the  London  "  Times." 
We  have  in  view  matters  not  identified 
with  the  spirit  and  comments  of  a  single 
newspaper,  however  influential.  We  have 
in  view  graver  and  more  comprehensive 
facts,  —  facts,  too,  more  significant  of  feel- 
ings and  opinion.  Stating  our  point  in 
general  terms,  which  we  shall  reduce  to 
some  particulars  before  we  close,  we  af- 
firm frankly  and  emphatically,  that  the 
North,  we  might  even  say  this  Nation,  as 
a  government  standing  in  solemn  treaty 
relations  with  Great  Britain,  has  just  cause 
of  complaint  and  offence  at  the  prevailing 
tone  and  spirit  of  the  English  people,  and 
press,  and  mercantile  classes,  towards  us, 
in  view  of  the  rebellion  which  is  convuls- 
ing our  land.  That  tone  and  spirit  have 
not  been  characterized  by  justice,  mag- 
nanimity, or  true  sympathy  with  a  noble 
and  imperilled  cause ;  they  have  not  been 
in  keeping  with  the  professions  and  avow- 
ed principles  of  that  people ;  they  have 
not  been  consistent  with  the  former  inti- 
mations of  English  opinion  towards  us,  as 
regards  our  position  and  our  duty;  and 
they  have  sadly  disappointed  the  hopes 
on  whose  cheering  support  we  had  re- 
lied when  the  dark  hours  which  English 
influence  had  helped  to  prepare  for  us 
should  come. 

Before  we  proceed  to  our  specifica- 
tions, let  us  meet  the  suggestion  often 
thrown  out,  that  we  have  been  unduly 
and  morbidly  sensitive  to  English  opin- 
ion in  this  matter ;  and  let  us  gratefully 
allow  for  the  exceptions  that  may  require 
to  be  recognized  in  the  application  of  our 
charges  against  the  English  people  or 
press  as  a  whole.  It  has  been  said  that 
we  have  shown  a  timid  and  almost  cra- 
ven sensitiveness  to  the  opinions  pro- 
nounced abroad  upon  our  national  strug- 
gle, especially  those  pronounced  by  our 
own  kinsfolk  of  England.  It  is  urged, 
that  a  strong  and  prosperous  and  unit- 
ed people,  if  conscious  of  only  a  rightful 
cause,  and  professing  the  ability  to  main- 
tain it,  should  be  self-reliant,  independent 
of  foreign  judgment,  and  ready  to  trust  to 
time  and  the  sure  candor  and  fulness  of 
the  expositions  which  it  brings  with  it,  to 


614 


Why  has  the  North  feU  aggrieved  with  England  ?    [November, 


set  us  right  before  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
But  what  if  another  nation,  supposed  to 
be  friendly,  known  even  to  have  rec- 
ommended and  urged  upon  us  the  very 
cause  for  which  we  are  contending,  rep- 
resents it  in  such  a  contumelious  and 
disheartening  way  as  to  show  us  that  we 
have  not  even  her  sympathy  ?  Further, 
what  if  there  is  a  spirit  and  a  tone  of 
treatment  towards  us  which  suggests  the 
possibility  that  at  some  critical  moment 
she  may  interfere  in  a  way  that  will  em- 
barrass us  and  encourage  our  enemies  ? 
The  sensitiveness  of  a  people  to  the 
possible  power  of  mischief  that  may  lie 
against  them  in  the  hands  of  a  jealous 
neighbor,  ready  to  be  used  at  the  will  or 
caprice  of  its  possessor,  may  indicate  ti- 
midity or  weakness.  But  Great  Britain, 
knowing  very  well  what  the  feeling  is, 
ought  to  understand  that  it  may  consist 
with  real  strength,  courage,  and  right 
purposes.  It  is  notorious  now  to  all  the 
civilized  world,  as  a  fact  often  ludicrous- 
ly and  sometimes  lugubriously  set  forth, 
that  millions  of  sturdy  English  folk  have 
lived  for  many  years,  and  live  at  this 
hour,  in  a  state  of  quaking  trepidation  as 
to  the  designs  of  a  single  man  of  "  ideas  " 
across  their  Channel.  What  bulletin  have 
the  English  people  ever  read  from  day  to 
day  with  such  an  intermittent  pulse  as 
that  with  which  they  peruse  quotations 
from  the  "  Moniteur  "  ?  The  English 
people,  whatever  might  have  been  true 
of  them  once,  are  now  the  last  people  in 
the  world  —  matched  and  overawed  as 
they  are  by  the  French  —  to  charge  up- 
on another  people  a  timid  sensitiveness 
for  even  the  slightest  intimations  of  for- 
eign feeling  and  possible  intentions. 

We  must  allow  also  for  exceptions  to 
the  sweep  of  the  specific  charges  under 
which  we  shall  express  our  grievances  at 
the  general  course  of  English  treatment 
towards  us.  There  have  been  messages 
in  many  private  letters  from  Englishmen 
and  Englishwomen  of  high  public  and 
of  dignified  private  station,  there  have 
been  editorials  and  communications  in 
a  few  English  papers,  there  have  been 
brief  utterances  in  Parlianlent,  and  from 


leading  speakers  at  political,  mercantile, 
literary,  and  religious  assemblies,  which 
have  shown  a  full  appreciation  of  the  im- 
port of  our  present  strife,  and  have  con- 
veyed to  us  in  words  of  most  precious 
and  grateful  encouragement  the  assur- 
ance that  many  hearts  are  beating  with 
ours  across  the  sea.  That  the  truculence 
and  venom  of  some  of  our  own  papers 
may  have  repressed  the  feeling  and  the 
utterance  of  this  same  sympathy  in  many 
individuals  and  ways  where  it  might  oth- 
erwise have  manifested  itself  is  not  un- 
natural, and  is  very  probable.  We  ac- 
knowledge most  gratefully  the  cheer  and 
the  inspiration  which  have  come  to  us 
from  every  word,  wish,  and  act  from 
abroad  that  has  recognized  the  stake  of 
our  conflict ;  and  we  will  take  for  grant- 
ed the  real  existence  and  the  glowing 
heartiness  of  much  of  the  same  which  has 
not  been  expressed,  or  has  not  reached 
us.  Farther  even  than  this  we  will  go 
in  tempering  or  qualifying  the  utterance 
of  our  grievances.  We  will  take  for 
granted  that  very  much  of  the  coldness, 
or  antipathy,  or  contemptuousness,  or 
misrepresentation  which  we  have  recog- 
nized in  the  general  treatment  of  us  and 
our  cause  by  Englishmen  is  to  be  ac- 
counted to  actual  ignorance  or  a  very 
partial  understanding  of  our  real  circum- 
stances and  of  the  conditions  of  the  con- 
flict, and  of  the  relations  of  parties  to  it. 
De  Tocqueville  is  universally  regarded 
among  us  as  the  only  foreigner  who  ever 
divined  the  theoretical  and  the  practical 
method  of  our  institutions.  Englishmen, 
English  statesmen  even,  have  never  pen- 
etrated to  the  mystery  of  them.  Many 
intelligent  British  travellers  have  seemed 
to  wish  to  do  so,  and  to  have  tried  to  do 
so.  But  the  study  bothers  them,  the 
secret  bafiles  them.  They  give  it  up 
with  a  gruif  impatience  which  writes  on 
their  features  the  sentence,  "  You  have 
no  right  to  have  such  complicated  and 
unintelligible  arrangements  In  your  gov- 
ernments, State  and  Federal :  they  are 
quite  un-English."  Our  foreign  kinsfolk 
seem  unwilling  to  realize  the  extent  of 
our  domain,  and  the  size  of  some  of  our 


1861.] 


Why  has  the  North  felt  aggrieved  with  England  ? 


615 


States  as  compared  with  their  own  isl- 
and, and  incapable  of  understanding  how 
different  institutions,  forms,  limitations, 
and  governmental  arrangements  may  ex- 
ist in  the  several  States,  independently 
of,  or  in  subordination  to,  the  province 
and  administration  of  the  Federal  Gov- 
ernment. Nearly  every  English  journal 
which  undertakes  to  refer  to  our  affairs 
will  make  ludicrous  or  serious  blunders, 
if  venturing  to  enter  into  details.  The 
"Edinburgh  Review"  kindly  volunteered 
to  be  the  champion  of  American  institu- 
tions and  products  in  opposition  to  the  ex- 
treme Toryism  of  the  "  Quarterly."  Syd- 
ney Smith  took  us,  our  authors  and  early 
enterprises,  under  his  special  patronage, 
and  he  wrote  many  favorable  articles 
of  that  character.  One  would  have  sup- 
posed, that.  In  the  necessary  preparation 
for  such  labors,  he  would  have  acquired 
some  geographical,  statistical,  and  other 
rudimentary  knowledge  about  us,  enough 
to  have  kept  him  from  gross  blunders. 
Unluckily,  for  him  and  for  us,  for  the 
sake  of  getting  here  on  his  money  double 
the  interest  which  he  could  get  at  home, 
and  not  considering  that  the  greater  the 
promised  profit  the  greater  the  risk,  he 
made  investments  in  some  of  our  stock 
companies  and  bonds.  When  these  in- 
vestments proved  disastrous,  he  raved 
and  fumed,  calling  upon  our  Govern- 
ment—  which  had  nothing  more  to  do 
with  the  matter  than  had  the  English 
Parliament  —  to  make  good  his  losses. 

We  are  tempted  for  a  moment  to  drop 
the  graver  thread  of  our  theme  to  relate 
an  anecdote  in  Illustration  of  our  present 
point.  It  happened  a  few  years  ago  that 
we  had  as  a  household  guest  for  two  or 
three  weeks  an  English  gentleman,  well- 
informed,  courteous,  and  excellent,  who 
had  been  for  several  years  the  editor  of  a 
London  paper.  On  the  day  after  his  do- 
mestication with  us,  which  was  within  the 
first  week  of  his  arrival  at  New  York, 
sitting  where  we  are  now  writing,  after 
breakfast,  he  announced  that  "  he  had  a 
commission  to  execute  for  a  friend,  with  a 
person  residing  in  Springfield."  Opening 
his  note-book,  he  handed  us  a  slip  of  pa- 


per bearing  the  gentleman's  name  and  ad- 
dress, "  Springfield,  Ohio."  Furnishing 
him  with  writing-materials,  we  were  about 
turning  to  our  own  occupation,  when,  sud^ 
denly,  with  a  quick  exclamation,  as  if 
recalling  something,  he  said,  "  Sure,  I 
have  been  in  Springfield.  I  remember 
a  short,  a  very  short  time  was  allowed 
for  dinner,  as  I  came  from  New  York." 
We  explained,  or  tried  to  explain  to  him, 
that  the  Springfield  through  which  he  had 
passed  and  the  Springfield  to  which  he  was 
writing  were  in  different  States  widely 
separated,  and  that  there  were  also  sev- 
eral other  "  Springfields."  To  this  he 
demurred,  protesting  that  it  made  mat- 
ters quite  confusing  to  foreigners  to  have 
the  same  names  repeated  in  different 
parts  of  the  country.  In  vain  did  we 
suggest  that  all  confusion  was  avoided  by 
adding  the  abbreviated  name  of  the  State. 
No !  "  It  was  very  confusing."  Sudden- 
ly, a  thought  occurred  to  us,  and,  refresh- 
ing our  memory  by  a  glance  at  the  Index 
of  our  English  "  Road-Book,"  we  suggest- 
ed triumphantly  that  names  were  repeat- 
ed for  different  localities  in  England: 
thus,  there  are  four  Ashfords,  two  Dor- 
chesters,  six  Hortons,  seven  Newports, 
etc.,  etc.  Our  guest,  with  an  air  and  ve- 
hemence that  quite  outvied  our  triumph, 
exclaimed,  —  "  Oh  !  but  they  are  in  dif- 
ferent shirrrhes,  in  different  shirrrhes  1 " 
Sure  enough,  one  of  his  own  shires  is  a 
larger  thing  to  an  Englishman  than  one 
of  our  States.  He  lives  on  an  island 
which  is  to  him  larger  than  all  the  rest  of 
the  world,  though  any  one  starting  from 
the  centre  of  it,  on  a  fast  ho7'se,  unless  he 
crossed  the  border  into  Scotland,  could 
scarcely  ride  in  any  direction  twenty-four 
hours  without  getting  overboard. 

To  the  actual  ignorance  or  obfuscation 
of  mind  of  the  majority  of  the  English 
people,  as  regards  our  country  and  its  in- 
stitutions, we  are  doubtless  to  refer  much 
of  the  ill-toned  and  seemingly  unfriendly 
comments  made  upon  our  affairs  in  their 
organs.  Thus,  it  is  intimated  to  us  by 
many  English  writers,  that  they  regard 
the  North  now  as  simply  undertaking  to 
patch  up  a  Union  founded  and  sustained 


eig 


WTiy  has  the  North  felt  aggrieved  with  England'^     [November, 


by  mean  compromises,  an  object  which 
has  already  led  us  into  many  humiliating 
concessions, —  and  that  the  moment  we 
announce  that  we  are  striking  a  blow  for 
Liberty,  we  shall  have  their  sympathy 
without  stint  or  measure.  No  English- 
man who  really  understood  our  affairs 
would  talk  in  that  way.  One  of  the  chief 
lures  which  instigated  and  encouraged  the 
Southern  rebellion  was  the  assurance, 
adroitly  insinuated  by  the  leading  trai- 
tors into  their  duped  followers,  that  oppo- 
sition by  the  rest  of  the  country  to  their 
schemes  would  take  the  form  of  an  anti- 
slavery  crusade,  in  which  form  the  oppo- 
sition would  be  put  down  by  the  combin- 
ed force  of  those  who  did  not  belong  to 
the  Republican  party.  They  were  de- 
ceived. Opposition  to  them  took  the 
form  of  a  rallying  by  all  parties  to  the 
defence  of  the  Constitution,  the  mainten- 
ance of  the  Union.  For  any  anti- sla- 
very zeal  to  have  attempted  to  divert 
the  aroused  patriotism  of  the  land  to  a 
breach  of  one  of  its  fundamental  constitu- 
tional provisions  would  have  been  treach- 
erous and  futile.  The  majority  of  our 
enlisted  patriotic  soldiers  would  have  laid 
down  their  arms.  If  the  leadings  of  Provi- 
dence shall  direct  the  thickening  strife  into 
an  exterminating  crusade  against  slavery, 
doubtless  our  patriots  will  wait  on  Provi- 
dence. But  we  could  not  have  started 
in  our  stern  work  avowing  that  as  an  ob- 
ject of  our  own.  And  as  to  the  mean- 
ness of  our  concessions  and  compromises 
for  Union,  we  have  to  consider  what  woes 
and  wrongs  that  Union  has  averted.  Has 
England  no  discreditable  passages  in  her 
own  Parliamentary  history  ?  Have  her 
attempts  at  governing  large  masses  of 
men.  Christian  and  heathen,  Roman  Cath- 
olic and  Protestant,  and  of  all  sects,  priv- 
ileged and  oppressed,  never  led  her  into 
any  truckling  or  tyrannical  legislation, 
any  concessions  or  compromises  of  ideal 
or  abstract  right  ? 

But  we  must  come  to  our  specifications, 
introducing  them  with  but  a  single  other 
needful  suggestion.  We  have  not  to 
complain  of  any  acts  or  formal  measures 
of  the  English  Government  against  us, — 


nor  even  of  the  omission  of  any  possible 
public  manifestation  which  might  have 
turned  to  our  encouragement  or  service. 
But  it  will  be  admitted  that  we  have  griev- 
ances to  complain  of,  if  the  tone  and  the 
strain  of  EngUsh  opinion  and  sentiment 
have  been  such  as  to  inspirit  the  South 
and  to  dispirit  the  North.  If  English  com- 
ments have  palliated  or  justified  the  origi- 
nal and  the  incidental  measures  of  the  Re- 
bellion,— if  they  have  been  zealous  to  find 
or  to  exaggerate  excuses  for  it,  to  over- 
state the  apparent  or  professed  grounds 
of  it,  to  wink  at  the  meannesses  and  out- 
rages by  which  it  has  thriven,  —  if  they 
have  perverted  or  misrepresented  the 
real  issue,  have  ridiculed  or  discouraged 
the  purposes  of  its  patriotic  opponents, 
have  embarrassed  or  impeded  their  hopes 
of  success,  or  have  prejudged  or  fore- 
closed the  probable  result,  —  it  will  be 
admitted,  we  say,  that  we  have  grievan- 
ces against  those  who  have  so  dealt  by 
us  in  the  hour  of  our  dismay  and  trial. 
And  it  is  an  enormous  aggravation  of  the 
disappointment  or  the  wrong  which  we 
are  bearing,  that  it  is  visited  upon  us  by 
England  just  as  we  have  initiated  meas- 
ures for  at  least  restraining  and  abating 
the  dominant  power  of  that  evil  institu- 
tion for  our  complicity  in  the  support  of 
which  she  has  long  been  our  unsparing 
censor.  We  complain  generally  of  the 
unsympathizing  and  contemptuous  tone 
of  England  towards  us,  —  of  the  mercu- 
rial standard  by  which  she  judges  our 
strife,  —  of  the  scarcely  qualified  delight 
with  which  she  parades  our  occasional 
ill-successes  and  discomfitures,  —  of  the 
haste  which  she  has  made  to  find  tokens 
of  a  rising  despotism  or  a  military  dicta- 
torship in  those  measures  of  our  Govern- 
ment which  are  needful  and  consistent 
with  the  exigencies  of  a  state  of  warfare, 
such  as  the  suspension,  on  occasions,  of 
the  habeas  corpus^  the  suppression  of  dis- 
loyal publications,  the  employment  of 
spies,  and  the  requisition  of  passports, — 
and  finally,  of  the  contemptible  service 
to  which  England  has  tried  to  put  our 
last  tariff,  and  of  her  evident  unwilling- 
ness to  have  us  find  or  furnish  the  finan- 


1861.] 


Why  has  the  North  felt  aggrieved  with  England  ? 


617 


ces  of  our  war.  Not  to  deal,  however, 
with  generalities,  we  proceed  to  make 
three  distinct  points  of  an  argument  that 
crowds  us  with  materials. 

Foremost  among  the  grievances  which 
we  at  the  North  may  allege  against  our 
brethren  across  the  water — foremost,  both 
in  time  and  In  the  harmful  influence  of 
its  working  —  we  may  specify  this  fact, 
that  the  English  press,  with  scarce  an 
exception,  made  haste.  In  the  very  earli- 
est stages  of  the  Southern  Rebellion,  to 
judge  and  announce  the  hopeless  parti- 
tion of  our  Union,  as  an  event  accom- 
plished and  irrevocable.  The  way  in 
which  this  judgment  was  reached  and 
pronounced,  the  time  and  circumstances 
of  its  utterance,  and  the  foregone  con- 
clusions which  were  drawn  from  it,  gave 
to  it  a  threatening  and  mischievous  agen- 
cy, only  less  prejudicial  to  our  cause,  we 
verily  believe,  than  would  have  been  an 
open  alliance  between  England  and  the 
enemies  of  the  Republic.  This  haste  to 
announce  the  positive  and  accomplished 
dissolution  of  our  National  Union  was 
forced  most  painfully  upon  our  notice  in 
the  darkest  days  of  our  opening  strife. 
Those  who  undertook  to  guide  and  in- 
struct English  opinion  in  the  matter  had 
easy  means  of  informing  themselves  about 
the  strangely  fortuitous  and  deplorable, 
though  most  opportune  and  favoring  com- 
bination of  circumstances  under  which 
"  Secession  "  was  Initiated  and  strength- 
ened. They  knew  that  the  Administra- 
tion, then  in  its  last  days  of  power,  was 
half- covertly,  half- avowedly  In  sympa- 
thy and  in  active  cooperation  with  the 
cause  of  rebellion.  The  famous  "  Ostend 
Conference"  had  had  its  doings  and  de- 
signs so  thoroughly  aired  In  the  columns 
of  the  English  press,  that  we  cannot  sup- 
pose either  the  editors  or  the  readers 
ignorant  of  the  spirit  or  intentions  of 
those  who  controlled  the  policy  of  that 
Administration.  Early  Information  like- 
wise crossed  the  water  to  them  of  the  dis- 
creditable and  Infamous  doings  and  plot- 
tings  of  members  of  the  Cabinet,  evident- 
ly In  league  with  the  fomenting  treach- 
ery.    They  knew  that  the  head  of  the 


Navy  Department  had  either  scattered 
our  ships  of  war  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
or  had  moored  them  in  helpless  disability 
at  our  dockyards,  —  that  the  head  of  the 
War  Department  had  been  plundering 
the  arsenals  of  loyal  States  to  furnish 
weapons  for  Intended  rebellion,  —  that 
the  head  of  the  Treasury  Department 
was  purloining  its  funds,  —  and  that  the 
President  himself,  while  allowing  na- 
tional forts  to  be  environed  by  hostile 
batteries,  had  formally  announced  that 
both  Secession  itself  and  all  attempts 
to  resist  it  were  alike  unconstitutional,  — 
the  effect  of  which  grave  opinion  was  to 
let  Secession  have  its  way  till  Coercion 
would  seem  to  be  not  only  unconstitution- 
al, but  unavailing.  Our  English  kinsfolk 
also  knew  that  our  prominent  diplomatic 
agents  abroad,  representing  solemn  trea- 
ty relations  with  them  of  this  nation  as  a 
unit,  under  sacred  oaths  of  loyalty  to  it, 
and  living  on  generous  grants  from  its 
Treasury,  were  also  In  more  or  less  of 
active  sympathy  with  traitorous  schemes. 
So  far,  it  must  be  owned,  there  was  little  In 
the  promise  of  whatever  might  grow  from 
these  combined  enormities  to  engage  the 
confidence  or  the  good  wishes  of  true-heart- 
ed persons  on  either  side  of  the  water. 

But  whatever  power  of  mischief  lay 
in  this  marvellous  combination  of  evil 
forces,  so  malignly  working  together,  the 
Administration  in  which  they  found  their 
life  and  whose  agencies  they  employed 
was  soon  to  yield  up  its  fearfully  dese- 
crated trust.  A  new  order  of  things, 
representing  at  least  the  spirit  and  pur- 
pose of  that  philanthropy  and  public 
righteousness  to  which  our  English  breth- 
ren had  for  years  been  prompting  us, 
was  to  come  in  with  a  new  Administra- 
tion, already  constitutionally  recognized, 
but  not  as  yet  put  into  power.  It  was 
asking  but  little  of  intelligent  foreigners 
of  our  own  blood  and  language,  that  they 
should  make  due  allowance  for  that  re- 
curring period  in  the  terms  of  our  Gov- 
ernment—as easily  turned  to  mischiev- 
ous influences  as  is  an  interregnum  in 
a  monarchy — by  which  there  is  a  lapse 
of  four  months  between  the  election  and 


618 


Why  has  the  North  felt  aggrieved  with  England'^     [November, 


the  inauguration  of  our  Chief  Magistrate. 
A  retiring  functionary  may  work  and 
plan  and  provide  an  immense  amount  of 
disabling,  annoying,  and  damaging  ex- 
perience to  be  encountered  by  his  suc- 
cessor. That  successor  may  at  a  dis- 
tance, or  close  at  hand,  be  an  observer 
of  all  this  influence ;  but  whether  it  be 
simply  of  a  partisan  or  of  a  malignant 
character,  he  is  powerless  to  resist  it, 
and  good  taste  and  the  proprieties  of  his 
position  seem  to  suggest  that  he  make  no 
public  recognition  of  it.  Every  Chief 
Magistrate  of  this  Republic,  before  its 
present  head,  acceded  to  office  with  its 
powers  and  dignities  and  facilities  and 
trusts  unimpaired  by  his  predecessor. 
We  have  thought  that  among  the  thorns 
of  the  pillow  on  which  a  certain  "  old 
public  functionary  "  lays  his  head,  as  he 
watches  the  dismal  working  of  elements 
which  he  had  more  power  than  any  oth- 
er to  have  dispelled,  not  the  least  sharp 
one  must  be  that  which  pierces  him  with 
the  thought  of  the  difference  between  the 
position  which  his  predecessors  prepared 
for  him  and  that  which  he  prepared  for 
his  successor.  Not  among  the  least  of 
the  claims  which  that  successor  has  up- 
on the  profound  and  respectful  sympathy 
of  all  good  men  everywhere  is  the  fact 
that  there  has  been  no  public  utterance 
of  complaining  or  reproachful  words  from 
his  lips,  reflecting  upon  his  predecessor, 
or  even  asking  indulgence  on  the  score 
of  the  shattered  and  almost  wrecked 
fabric  of  which  we  have  put  him  in 
charge.  We  confess  that  we  have  look- 
ed through  the  English  papers  for  months 
for  some  magnanimous  and  hlgh-souled 
tribute  of  this  sort  to  the  Man  who  thus 
nobly  represents  a  sacred  and  imperilled 
cause.  If  such  tribute  has  been  ren- 
dered, it  has  escaped  our  notice. 

Now,  as  we  are  reflecting  upon  the 
tone  and  spirit  of  the  English  press  at 
the  opening  of  the  Rebellion,  we  have  to 
recall  to  the  minds  of  our  readers  the 
fact,  that  in  all  its  early  stages,  even 
down  to  and  almost  after  the  proclama- 
tion of  the  President  summoning  a  vol- 
unteer force  to  resist  it,  we  ourselves,  at 


the  North,  utterly  refused  to  consider  the 
Seceders  as  in  earnest.  AVe  may  have 
been  stu{)ld,  besotted,  infatuated  even,  in 
our  blindness  and  incredulity.  But  none 
the  less  did  we,  that  is,  the  great  major- 
ity of  us,  regard  all  the  threats  and  meas- 
ures of  the  South  as  something  less  for- 
midable and  actual  than  open  war  and 
probable  or  threatening  revolution.  We 
were  persuaded  that  the  people  of  the 
South  had  been  wrought  up  by  artful 
and  ambitious  leaders  to  wild  alarm  that 
the  new  Administration  would  visit  out- 
rages upon  them  and  try  to  turn  them 
into  a  state  of  vassalage.  Utterly  un- 
conscious as  we  were  of  any  purpose  to 
trespass  upon  or  reduce  their  fullest  con- 
stitutional rights,  we  knew  how  grossly 
our  intentions  were  misrepresented  to 
them.  We  applied  the  same  measure 
to  the  distance  between  their  threats  and 
the  probability  that  they  would  carry 
them  out  which  we  knew  ought  to  be 
applied  to  the  difference  between  our 
supposed  and  our  real  intentions.  In  a 
word, — for  this  is  the  simple  truth, — we  re- 
garded the  manifestations  of  the  seceding 
and  rebelling  States  —  or  rather  of  the 
leaders  and  their  followers  in  them  — 
as  in  part  bluster  and  in  part  a  warning 
of  what  might  ensue,  though  it  would 
not  be  likely  to  ensue  when  their  eyes 
were  open  to  the  truth.  We  were  met 
by  bold  defiance,  by  outrageous  abuse, 
and  with  an  almost  overwhelming  vent- 
ing of  falsehoods.  There  was  boastful- 
ness,  arrogance,  assured  claims  of  suffi- 
cient strength,  and  daring  prophecies  of 
success,  enough  to  have  made  any  cause 
triumphant,  if  triumph  comes  through 
such  means.  Still  we  were  incredulous, 
perhaps  foolishly  and  culpably  so,  —  but 
incredulous,  and  unintimldated,  and  con- 
fident, none  the  less.  We  believed  that 
wise,  forbearing,  and  temperate  meas- 
ures of  the  new  Administration  would 
remove  all  real  grievances,  dispel  all  false 
alarms,  and  at  least  leave  open  the  way 
to  bloodless  methods  of  preserving  the 
Union.  Part  of  our  infatuation  consist- 
ed in  our  seeing  so  plainly  the  infatu- 
ation of  the   South,  while  we  did  not 


1861.] 


WJiy  has  the  North  felt  aggrieved  with  England  ? 


619 


allow  for  the  lengths  of  wild  and  reck- 
less folly  into  which  it  might  drive  them. 
We  could  see  most  plainly  that  either  suc- 
cess in  their  schemes,  or  failure  through 
a  struggle  to  accomplish  them,  would  be 
alike  ruinous  to  them ;  that  no  cause 
standing  on  the  basis  and  contemplat- 
ing the  objects  recognized  by  them  could 
possibly  prosper,  so  long  as  the  throne 
of  heaven  had  a  sovereign  seated  upon 
it.  Full  as  much,  then,  from  our  con- 
viction that  the  South  would  not  insist 
upon  doing  itself  such  harm  as  from 
any  fear  of  what  might  happen  to  us, 
did  we  refuse  to  regard  Secession  as  a 
fixed  fact.  At  the  period  of  which  we 
are  speaking,  there  was  probably  not  a 
single  man  at  the  North,  of  well-fur- 
nished and  well-balanced  mind  —  Avho 
stood  clear  in  heart  and  pocket  of  all  se- 
cret or  interested  bias  toward  the  South 
—  that  deliberately  recognized  the  prob- 
ability of  the  dissolution  of  the  Union. 
Very  few  such  men  will,  indeed,  recog- 
nize that  possibility  now,  except  as  they 
recognize  the  possibility  of  the  destruc- 
tion of  an  edifice  of  solid  blocks  and 
stately  columns  by  the  grinding  to  pow- 
der of  each  large  mass  of  the  fabric,  so 
that  no  rebuilding  could  restore  it. 

This  was  the  state  of  mind  and  feel- 
ing with  which  we,  who  had  so  much  at 
stake  and  could  watch  every  pulsation 
of  the  excitement,  contemplated  the  as- 
pect of  our  opening  strife.  But  with  the 
first  echo  from  abroad  of  its  earliest  an- 
nouncements here  came  the  most  posi- 
tive averments  in  the  English  papers, 
with  scarcely  a  single  exception,  that 
the  knell  of  this  Union  had  struck.  We 
had  fallen  asunder,  our  bond  was  broken, 
we  had  repudiated  our  former  league  or 
fellowship,  and  henceforth  what  had  been 
a  unit  was  to  be  two  or  more  fragments, 
in  peaceful  or  hostile  relations  as  the 
case  might  be,  but  never  again  One.  It 
would  but  revive  for  us  the  first  really 
sharp  and  irritating  pangs  of  this  dismal 
experience,  to  go  over  the  files  of  papers 
for  those  extracts  which  were  like  vinegar 
to  our  eyes  as  we  first  read  them.  Their 
substance  is  repeated  to  us  in  the  sheets 


which  come  by  every  steamer.  There 
were,  of  course,  variations  of  tone  and 
spirit  in  these  evil  prognostications  and 
these  raven-like  croaks.  Sometimes  there 
was  a  vein  of  pity,  and  of  that  kind  of 
sorrow  which  we  feel  and  of  that  other 
kind  which  we  express  for  other  people's 
troubles.  Sometimes  there  was  a  start 
of  surprise,  an  ejaculation  of  amazement, 
or  even  profound  dismay,  at  the  calami- 
ty which  had  come  upon  us.  In  others 
of  these  newspaper  comments  there  was 
that  unmistakable  superciliousness,  that 
goading  contemptuousness  of  self-conceit 
and  puffy  disdain,  which  John  Bull  visits 
on  all  "un-English"  things,  especially 
when  they  happen  under  their  unfortu- 
nate aspects.  In  not  a  few  of  these  same 
comments  there  was  a  tone  of  exultation, 
malignant  and  almost  diabolical,  as  at 
the  discomfiture  of  a  hated  and  danger- 
ous rival.  We  have  read  at  least  three 
English  newspapers  for  each  week  that 
has  passed  since  our  troubles  began  ;  we 
have  been  readers  of  these  papers  for  a 
score  of  years.  In  not  one  of  them  have 
we  met  the  sentence  or  the  line  which  pro- 
nounces hopefully,  with  bold  assurance, 
for  the  renewed  life  of  our  Union.  lu 
by  far  the  most  of  them  there  is  reiter- 
ated the  most  positive  and  dogged  aver- 
ment that  there  is  no  future  for  us.  We 
are  not  unmindful  of  the  manliness  and 
stout  cheer  with  which  a  very  few  of 
them  have  avowed  their  wish  and  faith 
that  the  Rebels  may  be  utterly  discom- 
fited and  held  up  before  the  world  in  their 
shame  and  friendlessness,  and  have  coup- 
led with  these  utterances  words  of  warm 
sympathy  and  approval  for  the  North. 
But  these  ill -wishes  for  the  one  party 
and  these  good  wishes  for  the  other 
party  are  independent  of  anything  but 
utter  hopelessness  as  to  the  preservation 
or  the  restoration  of  the  Union. 

Now  some  may  suggest  that  we  make 
altogether  too  much  of  what  so  far  is  but 
the  expression  of  an  opinion,  and,  at 
worst,  of  an  unfavorable  opinion,  —  an 
opinion,  too,  which  may  yet  prove  to  be 
correct.  But  the  giving  of  an  opinion  on 
some  matters  has  all  the  efiect  of  taking 


620 


Why  has  the  North  felt  aggrieved  with  England'^    [November, 


a  side,  and  often  helps  much  to  decide 
the  stake.  On  very  many  accounts,  this 
expression  of  English  opinion,  at  the  time 
it  was  uttered  and  with  such  emphasis, 
was  most  unwarranted  and  most  mis- 
chievous. It  is  very  easy  to  distribute 
its  harmful  influence  upon  our  interests 
and  prospects  into  three  very  different 
methods,  all  of  which  combined  to  injure 
or  obstruct  the  Northern  cause,  —  the 
National  cause.  Thus,  this  opinion  of 
the  hopelessness  of  our  resistance  of  the 
ruin  of  our  Union  was  of  great  value  to 
the  Rebels  as  an  encouragement  under 
any  misgivings  they  might  have ;  it  was 
calculated  to  prejudice  our  position  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world ;  and  it  had  a  ten- 
dency to  dispirit  many  among  ourselves. 
A  word  upon  each  of  these  points.  —  How 
quickening  must  it  have  been  to  the  flag- 
ging hopes  or  determination  of  the  Rebels 
to  read  in  the  English  journals  that  they 
were  sure  of  success,  that  the  result  was 
already  registered,  that  they  had  gain- 
ed their  purpose  simply  by  proposing  it  1 
Nor  was  it  possible  to  regard  this  opinion 
as  not  carrying  with  it  some  implication 
that  the  cause  of  the  Rebels  was  a  just 
one,  and  was  sure  of  success,  if  for  other 
reasons,  for  this,  too,  among  them,  name- 
ly, that  it  was  just.  Why  else  were  the 
Rebels  so  sure  of  a  triumph?  Was  it 
because  of  their  superior  strength  or 
resources  ?  A  very  little  inquiry  would 
have  set  aside  that  suggestion.  Was  it 
because  of  the  nobleness  of  their  cause  ? 
A  very  frank  avowal  from  the  Vice- 
President  of  the  assumed  Confederacy 
announced  to  liberty-loving  Englishmen 
that  that  cause  was  identified  with  a 
slavocracy.  Or  was  the  Rebel  cause  to 
succeed  through  the  dignity  and  purity 
of  the  means  enlisted  in  its  service  V  It 
was  equally  well  known  on  both  sides  of 
the  water  by  what  means  and  appliances 
of  fraud,  perfidy,  treachery,  and  other 
outrages,  the  schemes  of  the  Rebellion 
were  initiated  and  pursued.  If,  in  spite 
of  all  these  negatives,  the  English  press 
prophesies  success  to  the  Rebels,  was  not 
the  prophecy  a  great  comfort  and  spur 
to  them?  —  Again,  this  prophecy  of  our 


sure  discomfiture  prejudiced  us  before  the 
world.  It  gave  a  public  character  and 
aspect  of  hopelessness  to  our  cause ;  it  in- 
vited coldness  of  treatment  towards  us ; 
it  seemed  to  warn  off  all  nations  from  civ- 
ing  us  aid  or  comfort ;  and  it  virtually  af- 
firmed that  any  outlay  of  means  or  life  by 
us  in  a  cause  seen  to  be  impracticable 
would  be  reckless,  sanguinary,  cruel,  and 
inhuman.  —  And,  once  more,  to  those 
among  ourselves  who  are  influenced  by 
evil  prognostications,  it  was  most  dispirit- 
ing to  be  told,  as  if  by  cool,  unprejudiced 
observers  from  outside,  that  no  uprising 
of  patriotism,  no  heroism  of  sacrifice,  no 
combination  of  wisdom  and  power  would 
be  of  any  avail  to  resist  a  foreordained 
catastrophe. — In  these  three  harmful  ways 
of  influence,  the  ill-omened  opinion  reit- 
erated from  abroad  had  a  tendency  to 
fulfil  itself.  The  whole  plea  of  justifica- 
tion offered  abroad  for  the  opinion  is  giv- 
en in  the  assertion  that  those  who  have 
once  been  bitterly  alienated  can  never 
be  brought  into  true  harmony  again,  and 
that  it  is  impossible  to  govern  the  unwill- 
ing as  equals.  England  has  but  to  read 
the  record  of  her  own  strifes  and  battles 
and  infuriated  passages  with  Scotland 
and  Ireland,  —  between  whom  and  her- 
self alienations  of  tradition,  prejudice, 
and  religion  seemed  to  make  harmony  as 
impossible  as  the  promise  of  it  is  to  these 
warring  States,  —  England  has  only  to 
refresh  her  memory  on  these  points,  in 
order  to  relieve  us  of  the  charge  of  folly 
in  attempting  an  impossibility.  So  much 
for  the  first  grievance  we  allege  against 
our  English  brethren. 

Another  of  our  specifications  of  wrong 
is  involved  in  that  already  considered. 
If  English  opinion  decided  that  our  na- 
tionality must  henceforth  be  divided,  it 
seemed  also  to  imply  that  we  ought  to 
divide  according  to  terms  dictated  by  the 
Seceders.  This  was  a  precious  judgment 
to  be  pronounced  against  us  by  a  sister 
Government  which  was  standing  in  sol- 
emn treaty  relations  with  us  as  a  unit  in 
our  nationality  !  What  did  England  sup- 
pose had  become  of  our  Northern  man- 
hood, of  the  spirit  of  which  she  herself 


1861.]  Why  has  the  North  felt  aggrieved  with  England'^ 


621 


once  felt  the  force  ?  There  was  some- 
thing alike  humiliating  and  exasperating 
in  this  implied  advice  from  her,  that  we 
should  tamely  and  unresistingly  submit 
to  a  division  of  continent,  bays,  and  riv- 
ers, according  to  terms  defiantly  and  in- 
sultingly proposed  by  those  who  had  a 
joint  ownership  with  ourselves.  How 
would  England  receive  such  advice  from 
us  under  hke  circumstances  ?  But  we 
must  cut  short  the  utterance  of  our  feel- 
ings on  this  point,  that  we  may  make 
another  specification,  — 

Which  is,  that  our  English  critics  see 
only,  or  chiefly,  in  the  fearful  and  mo- 
mentous conflict  in  which  we  are  en- 
gaged, "  a  bursting  of  the  bubble  of  De- 
mocracy " !  Shall  we  challenge  now  the 
intelligence  or  the  moral  principle,  the 
lack  of  one  or  the  other  of  which  is  be- 
trayed in  this  sneering  and  malignant 
representation  —  this  utter  misrepresen- 
tation —  of  the  catastrophe  which  has  be- 
fallen our  nation?  Intelligent  English- 
men know  full  well  that  the  issue  raised 
among  us  does  not  necessarily  touch  or 
involve  at  a  single  point  the  principles 
of  Democracy,  but  stands  wide  apart  and 
distinct  from  them.  We  might  with  as 
much  propriety  have  said  that  the  Irish 
Rebellion  and  the  Indian  Mutiny  show- 
ed "  the  bursting  of  the  bubble  of  Mon- 
archy." The  principles  of  Democracy 
stand  as  firm  and  find  our  people  as  loy- 
al to  them  in  every  little  town -meeting 
and  in  every  legislature  of  each  loyal 
State  in  the  Union  as  they  did  in  the 
days  of  our  first  enthusiastic  and  suc- 
cessful trial  of  them.  Supposing  even 
that  the  main  assumption  on  which  so 
many  Englishmen  have  prematurely  vent- 
ed their  scorn  were  a  fact ;  we  cannot 
but  ask  if  the  nation  nearest  akin  to 
us,  and  professing  to  be  guided  in  this 
century  by  feelings  which  forbid  a  re- 
joicing over  others'  great  griefs,  has  no 
words  of  high  moral  sympathy,  no  ex- 
pressions of  regretful  disappointment  in 
our  calamities  ?  Is  it  the  first  or  the  most 
emphatic  thing  which  it  is  most  fitting 
for  Christian  Englishmen  to  say  over  the 
supposed  wreck  of  a  recently  noble  and 


promising  country,  the  prospered  home 
of  thirty  millions  of  God's  children, — 
that  "  a  bubble  has  burst "  ?  We  might 
interchange  with  our  foreign  "comfort* 
ers  "  a  discussion  by  arguments  and  facts 
as  to  whether  a  monarchy  or  a  democ- 
racy has  about  it  more  of  the  qualities 
of  a  bubble,  but  the  debate  would  be 
irrelevant  to  our  present  purpose.  We 
believe  that  Democracy  in  its  noblest  and 
all -essential  and  well -proved  principles 
will  survive  the  shock  which  has  struck 
upon  our  nation,  whatever  the  result  of 
that  shock  may  yet  prove  to  be.  We 
believe,  further,  that  the  principles  of 
Democracy  will  come  out  of  the  struggle 
which  is  trying,  not  themselves,  but  some- 
thing quite  distinct  from  them,  with  a  new 
aifirmation  and  vindication.  But  let  that 
be  as  it  may,  we  are  as  much  ashamed 
for  England's  sake  as  we  are  aggrieved 
on  our  own  account  that  from  the  ve- 
hicles of  public  sentiment  in  "  the  fore- 
most realm  in  the  world  fot  all  true  cul- 
ture, advanced  progress,  and  the  glorious 
triumphs  of  liberty  and  religion,"  what 
should  be  a  profoundly  plaintive  lament 
over  our  supposed  ruin  is,  in  reality,  a 
mocking  taunt  and  a  hateful  gibe  over 
our  failure  in  daring  to  try  an  "  un-Eng- 
lish" experiment.* 

*  The  following  precious  utterances  of  John 
Bull  moralizing,  which  might  have  been  spok- 
en of  the  Thugs  in  India,  or  of  some  provin- 
cial Chinese  enterprise,  are  extracted  from  the 
cotton  circular  of  Messrs.  Neill,  Brothers,  ad- 
dressed to  their  correspondents,  and  dated, 
Manchester,  Aug.  21.  We  find  the  circular 
copied  in  a  religious  newspaper  published  in 
London,  without  any  rebuke.  "  The  North 
will  have  to  learn  the  limited  extent  of  her 
powers  as  compared  with  the  gigantic  task 
she  has  undertaken.  One  and  perhaps  two 
defeats  will  be  insufficient  to  reverse  the  false 
education  of  a  lifetime.  Many  lessons  will 
probably  be  necessary,  and,  meantime,  any 
success  the  Northern  troops  may  obtain  will 
again  inflame  the  national  vanity,  and  the 
lessons  of  adversity  will  need  to  be  learned 
over  again.  More  effect  will  probably  be  pro- 
duced by  sufferings  at  home,  by  the  ruin  of 
the  higher  classes  and  pauperization  of  the 
lower,  and  by  the  general  absorption  of  the 
floating  capital  of  the  country  " !  There,  good 
reader,  what  think  you  of  the  cotton  moral- 


622 


Why  has  the  North  felt  aggrieved  loith  England'^   [November, 


The  stately  "  Quarterly  Review,"  in  its 
number  for  July,  uses  a  little  more  of 
dignity  in  wording  the  title  of  an  article 
upon  our  affairs  thus,  —  "  Democracy  on 
its  Trial " ;  but  it  makes  up  for  the  waste 
of  refinement  upon  its  text  by  a  lavish 
indulgence  in  scurrility  and  falsehood  in 
its  comments.  As  a  specimen,  take  the 
following.  Living  here  in  this  goodly 
city  of  Boston,  and  knowing  and  loving 
well  its  ways  and  people,  we  are  asked 
to  credit  the  following  story,  which  the 
Reviewer  says  he  heard  from  "  a  well- 
known  traveller."  The  substance  of  the 
story  is,  that  a  Boston  merchant  proposed 
to  gild  the  lamp  over  his  street-door,  but 
was  dissuaded  from  so  doing  by  the  sug- 
gestion of  a  friend,  that  by  savoring  of 
aristocracy  the  ornamented  gas-burner 
would  offend  the  tyrannical  people  and 
provoke  violence  against  it !  This,  the 
latest  joke  in  the  solemn  Quarterly,  has 
led  many  of  its  readers  here  to  recall  the 
days  of  Madame  Trollope  and  the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Fiddler,  those  veracious  ^d 
"  well-known  travellers."  There  are,  we 
are  sorry  to  say,  many  gilded  street-lamps, 
burnished  and  blazing  every  night,  in  Bos- 
ton. But  instead  of  standing  before  the 
houses  of  our  merchants,  they  designate 
quite  a  different  class  of  edifices.  Our 
merchants,  as  a  general  thing,  would  ob- 
ject, both  on  the  score  of  good  taste  and 
on  grounds  of  disagreeable  association 
with  the  signal,  to  raise  such  an  orna- 
ment before  the  doors  of  their  comfort- 
able homes.  The  common  people,  how- 
ever, so  far  from  taking  umbrage  at  the 
spectacle,  would  be  rather  gratified  by 
the  generosity  of  our  grandees  in  being 
willing  to  show  some  of  their  finery  out 
of  doors.  This  would  be  the  feelinjj 
especially  of  that  part  of  our  population 
which  is  composed  of  foreigners,  who 
have  been  used  to  the  sight  of  such 
demonstrations  in  their  native  countries, 
which  are  not  democracies.  In  fact, 
we  suspect  that  the  reason  why  English 


izing  of  a  comfortable  factor,  dwelling  in  im- 
maculate England,  dealing  with  us  in  cotton, 
and  with  the  Chinese  in  opium? 


"flunkeys"  hate  American  "flunkeyism," 
with  its  laced  coachmen,  etc.,  is  because 
mere  money,  by  aping  the  insignia  of 
rank,  its  gewgaws  and  trumpery,  shows 
too  plainly  how  much  of  the  rank  itself 
depends  upon  the  fabrics  and  demonstra- 
tions through  which  it  sets  itself  forth. 
We  can  conceive  that  an  English  noble- 
man travelling  in  this  country,  who  might 
chance  in  one  of  our  cities  to  see  a  turn- 
out with  its  outriders,  tassels,  and  crests, 
almost  or  quite  as  fine  as  his  own,  if  he 
were  informed  that  it  belonged  to  a  ple- 
beian who  had  grown  vastly  rich  through 
some  coarse  traffic,  might  resolve  to  re- 
duce all  the  display  of  his  own  equipage 
the  moment  he  reached  home.  The  la- 
bored and  mean-spirited  purpose  of  the 
writer  of  the  aforesaid  article  in  the 
Quarterly,  and  of  other  writers  of  like 
essays,  is  to  find  in  our  democracy  the 
material  and  occasion  of  everything  of 
a  discreditable  sort  which  occurs  in  our 
land.  Now  we  apprehend,  not  without 
some  means  of  observation  and  inquiry, 
that  the  state  and  features  of  society  in 
Great  Britain  and  in  all  our  Northern 
regions  are  almost  identically  the  same, 
or  run  in  parallelisms,  by  which  we  might 
match  every  phenomenon,  incident,  prej- 
udice, and  folly,  every  good  and  every 
bad  trait  and  manifestation  in  the  one 
place  with  something  exactly  like  it  in 
the  other.  During  a  whole  score  of 
years,  as  we  have  read  the  English  jour- 
nals and  our  own,  the  thought  has  over 
and  over  again  suggested  itself  to  us  that 
any  one  who  had  leisure  and  taste  for 
the  task  might  cut  out  from  each  series 
of  papers  respectively,  for  a  huge  com- 
monplace book,  matters  of  a  precisely 
parallel  nature  in  both  countries.  A 
simple  difference  in  the  names  of  men 
and  of  places  would  be  all  that  would 
appear  or  exist.  Every  noble  and  every 
mean  and  every  mixed  exhibition  of  char- 
acter, —  every  act  of  munificence  and  of 
baseness, — every  narrative  of  thrilling  or 
romantic  interest,  —  every  instance  and 
example  of  popular  delusion,  humbug, 
man-worship,  breach  of  trust,  domestic 
infelicity,  and  of  cunning  or  astounding 


1861.]  Why  has  the  North  felt  aggrieved  with  England'^ 


623 


depravity  and  hypocrisy,  —  every  relig- 
ious, social,  and  political  excitement, — 
every  panic, — and  every  accident  even, 
from  carelessness  or  want  of  skill, — each 
and  all  these  have  their  exact  parallels, 
generally  within  the  same  year  of  time 
in  Great  Britain  and  in  our  own  coun- 
try. The  crimes  and  the  catastrophes, 
in  each  locality,  have  seemed  almost 
repetitions  of  the  same  things  on  either 
continent.  Munificent  endowments  of 
charitable  institutions,  zeal  in  reforma- 
tory enterprises  and  in  the  correction  of 
abuses,  have  shown  that  the  people  of 
both  regions  stand  upon  the  same  plane 
of  humanity  and  practical  Christian  cul- 
ture. The  same  great  frauds  have  indi- 
cated in  each  the  same  amount  of  rotten- 
ness in  men  occupying  places  of  trust. 
Both  regions  have  had  the  same  sort  of 
unprincipled  "  railway  kings  "  and  bank- 
ers, similar  railroad  disasters,  similar  cases 
of  the  tumbling  down  of  insecure  walls, 
and  of  wife-poisoning.  A  Chartist  insur- 
rection enlists  a  volunteer  police  in  Lon- 
don, and  an  apprehended  riot  among  for- 
eigners is  met  by  a  similar  precaution  in 
one  of  our  cities.  An  intermittent  con- 
troversy goes  on  in  England  about  the 
interference  of  religion  with  common  ed- 
ucation, and  Boston  or  New  York  is  agi- 
tated at  the  same  time  with  the  ques- 
tion about  the  use  of  the  Bible  in  the 
public  schools.  Boston  rowdies  mob  an 
English  intermeddler  with  the  ticklish 
matters  of  our  national  policy,  and  Eng- 
lish rowdies  mob  an  Austrian  Haynau. 
England  goes  into  ecstasies  over  the  visit 
of  a  Continental  Prince,  and  our  North- 
ern States  repeat  the  demonstration  over 
the  visit  of  a  British  Prince.  The  Duke 
of  Wellington  alarms  his  fellow-subjects 
by  suggesting  that  their  national  defences 
would  all  prove  insufficient  against  the 
assaults  of  a  certain  terrible  Frenchman, 
and  an  American  cabinet  official  echoes 
the  suggestion  that  England  may,  per- 
haps, try  her  strength  in  turn  against  us. 
There  are  evidently  a  great  many  bub- 
bles in  this  world,  and,  for  all  that  we 
know  to  the  contrary,  they  are  all  equal- 
ly liable  to  burst.     Some  famous  ones, 


bright  in  royal  hues,  have  burst  within 
the  century.  Some  more  of  the  same 
may,  not  impossibly,  suffer  a  collapse  be- 
fore the  century  has  closed.  So  that,  for 
this  matter,  "  the  bubble  of  Democracy  " 
must  take  its  chance  with  the  rest. 

We  have  one  more  specification  to 
make  under  our  general  statement  of  rea- 
sons why  the  North  feels  aggrieved  with 
the  prevailing  tone  of  sentiment  and 
comment  in  the  English  journals  in  ref- 
erence to  our  great  calamity.  We  pro- 
test against  the  verdict  which  finds  ex- 
pression in  all  sorts  of  ways  and  with 
various  aggravations,  that,  in  attempting 
to  rupture  our  Union,  and  to  withdraw 
from  it  on  their  own  terms,  at  their  own 
pleasure,  the  seceding  States  are  but  re- 
peating the  course  of  the  old  Thirteen 
Colonies  in  declaring  themselves  inde- 
pendent, and  sundering  their  ties  to  the 
mother  country.  There  is  evidently 
the  rankling  of  an  old  smart  in  this  plea 
for  rebels,  which,  while  it  is  not  intended 
to  justify  rebellion  in  itself,  is  devised  as 
a  vindication  of  rebels  against  rebels. 
There  is  manifest  satisfaction  and  a  high 
zest,  and  something  of  the  morally  aw- 
ful and  solemnly  remonstrative,  in  the 
way  in  which  the  past  is  evoked  to  visit 
its  ghostly  retribution  upon  us.  The  old 
sting  rankles  in  the  English  breast.  She 
is  looking  on  now  to  see  us  hoist  by  our 
own  petard.  These  pamphlet  pages,  with 
their  circumscribed  limits  and  their  less 
ambitious  aims,  do  not  invite  an  elaborate 
dealing  with  the  facts  of  the  case,  which 
would  expose  the  sophistical,  if  not  the 
vengeful  spirit  of  this  English  plea,  as 
for  rebels  against  rebels.  A  thorough 
exposition  of  the  relations  which  the 
present  Insurrection  bears  to  the  for- 
mer Revolution  would  demand  an  essay. 
The  relations  between  them,  however, 
whether  stated  briefly  or  at  length,  would 
be  found  to  be  simply  relations  of  dlffisr- 
ence,  without  one  single  point  of  resem- 
blance, much  less  of  coincidence.  We 
can  make  but  the  briefest  reference  to 
the  points  of  contrast  and  unlikeness  be- 
tween the  two  things,  after  asserting  that 
they  have  no  one  common  feature.    It 


624 


Wliy  has  the  North  felt  aggrieved  with  England  ?     [November, 


miglit  seem  evasive  in  us  to  suggest  to 
our  English  critics  that  they  should  re- 
fresh their  memories  about  the  causes  and 
the  justification  of  our  Revolution  by  read- 
ing the  pages  of  their  own  Burke.  We 
are  content  to  rest  our  case  on  his  ar^u- 
ment,  simply  affirming  that  on  no  one 
point  will  it  cover  the  alleged  parallel- 
ism of  the  Southern  Rebellion. 

The  relations  of  our  States  to  each 
other  and  to  the  Union  are  quite  unlike 
those  in  which  the  Colonies  stood  to  Eng- 
land. England  claimed  by  right  of  dis- 
covery and  exploration  the  soil  on  which 
her  Colonies  here  were  planted,  though 
she  had  rival  claimants  from  the  very 
first.  A  large  number  of  the  Colonists 
never  had  any  original  connection  with 
England,  and  owed  her  no  allegiance. 
Holland,  Sweden,  and  other  countries 
furnished  much  of  the  first  stock  of  our 
settlers,  who  thought  they  were  occupy- 
ing a  wild  part  of  God's  earth  rather 
than  a  portion  of  the  English  domin- 
ions. The  Colonies  were  not  planted  at 
public  charge,  by  Government  cost  or 
enterprise.  The  English  exiles,  with 
but  slender  grounds  of  grateful  remem- 
brance of  the  land  they  had  left,  brought 
■with  them  their  own  private  means,  sub- 
dued a  wilderness,  extinguished  the  ab- 
original titles,  and  slowly  and  wearily 
developed  the  resources  of  the  country. 
Often  in  their  direst  straits  did  they  de- 
cline to  ask  aid  from  England,  lest  they 
might  thereby  furnish  a  plea  for  her  in- 
terference with  their  internal  affairs.  Sev- 
eral of  the  Colonies  from  the  first  acted 
upon  their  presumed  independence,  and 
resolved  on  the  frank  assertion  of  it  as 
soon  as  they  might  dare  the  venture. 
That  time  for  daring  happened  to  be 
contemporaneous  with  a  tyrannical  de- 
mand upon  them  for  tribute  without  rep- 
resentation. Thus  the  relations  of  the  Col- 
onies to  England  were  of  a  hap-hazard, 
abnormal,  incidental,  and  always  un- 
settled character.  They  might  be  modi- 
fied or  changed  without  any  breach  of 
contract.  They  might  be  sundered  with- 
out perjury  or  perfidy. 

How  unlike  in  all  respects  are  the  re- 


lations of  these  States  to  each  other  and 
to  the  Union !  Drawn  together  after 
dark  days  and  severe  trials, — solemnly 
pledged  to  each  other  by  the  people 
whom  the  Union  raised  to  a  full  citizen- 
ship in  the  Republic,  —  bound  by  a  com- 
pact designed  to  be  without  limitation  of 
time, — lifted  by  their  consolidation  to  a 
place  and  fame  and  prosperity  which 
they  would  never  else  have  reached, — 
mutually  necessary  to  each  other's  thrift 
and  protection, —  making  a  nation  adapt- 
ed by  its  organic  constitution  to  the  re- 
gion of  the  earth  which  it  occupies,— and 
now,  by  previous  memories  and  tradi- 
tions, by  millions  of  social  and  domestic 
alliances,  knit  by  heart-strings  the  sun- 
dering of  which  will  be  followed  by  a 
flow  of  the  life-blood  till  all  is  spent,  — 
these  terms  are  but  a  feeble  setting  forth 
of  the  relations  of  these  States  to  each 
other  and  to  the  Union.  Some  of  these 
States  which  have  been  voted  out  of  the 
Union  by  lawless  Conventions  owe  their 
creation  to  the  Union.  Their  very  soil  has 
been  paid  for  out  of  the  public  treasury. 
Indeed,  the  Union  is  still  in  debt  under 
obligations  incurred  by  their  purchase. 

How  striking,  too,  is  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  character  and  method  of  the 
proceedings  which  originated  and  now 
sustain  the  Rebellion,  and  those  which 
initiated  and  carried  through  the  Revo- 
lution !  The  Rebellion  exhibits  to  us  a 
complete  inversion  of  the  course  of  meas- 
ures which  inaugurated  the  Revolution. 
"  Secession "  was  the  invention  of  am- 
bitious leaders,  who  overrode  the  forms 
of  law,  and  have  not  dared  to  submit 
their  votes  and  their  doings  to  primary 
meetings  of  the  people  whom  they  have 
driven  with  a  despotic  tyranny.  In  the 
Revolution  the  people  themselves  were 
the  prime  movers.  Each  little  country 
town  and  municipality  of  the  original 
Colonies,  that  has  a  hundred  years  of 
history  to  be  written,  will  point  us  boast- 
fully to  entries  in  its  records  showing  how 
it  instructed  its  representatives  first  to 
remonstrate  against  tyranny,  and  then 
to  resist  it  by  successive  measures,  each 
of  which,  with  its  limitations  and  its  in- 


1861.] 


T}ie   Wild  Endive, 


625 


creasing  boldness,  was  dictated  by  tlie 
same  people.  The  people  of  Virginia,  re- 
membering the  ancient  precedent  which 
won  them  their  renown,  intended  to  fol- 
low it  in  an  early  stage  of  our  present 
strife.  They  allowed  a  Convention  to 
assemble,  under  the  express  and  rigid 
condition,  that,  if  it  should  see  fit  to  ad- 
vise any  measure  which  would  afiect  the 
relations  of  their  State  to  the  Union,  a 
reference  should  be  made  of  it,  prior  to 
any  action,  to  the  will  of  the  people.  The 
Convention  covertly  and  treacherously 
abused  its  trust.  In  secret  session  it 
authorized  measures  on  the  strength  of 
which  the  Governor  of  the  State  proceed- 
ed to  put  it  into  hostile  relations  with 
the  Union.  When  the  foregone  conclu- 
sion was  at  last  farcically  submitted  to 
the  people,  a  perjured  Senator  of  the 
National  Congress  notified  such  of  them 
as  would  not  ratify  the  will  of  the  Con- 
vention, that  they  must  leave  the  State. 

Once  more,  in  our  Revolution,  holders 
of  office  and  of  lucrative  trusts  in  the  in- 
terest of  England  were  to  a  man  loyal 
to  the  Home  Government,  and  our  inde- 
pendence was  efiected  without  any  base 
appliances.     In  the  work  of  secession 


and  rebellion,  the  very  officials  and  sworn 
guardians  of  our  Government  have  been 
the  foremost  plotters.  They  have  used 
their  opportunities  and  their  trusts  for 
the  most  perfidious  purposes.  Nothing 
but  perjury  in  the  very  highest  places 
could  have  initiated  secession  and  rebel- 
lion, and  to  this  very  moment  they  de- 
rive all  their  vigor  in  the  council-cham- 
ber and  on  the  field  from  forsworn  men, 
most  of  whom  have  been  trained  from 
their  childhood,  nurtured,  instructed,  and 
fed,  and  all  of  whom  have  been  fostered 
in  their  manhood,  and  gifted  with  their 
whole  power  for  harming  her,  by  the  kind- 
ly mother  whose  life  they  are  assailing. 
If  the  Man  with  the  Withered  Hand  had 
used  the  first  thrill  of  life  and  vigor  com- 
ing into  it  by  the  word  of  the  Great  Phy- 
sician to  aim  a  blow  at  his  benefactor, 
his  ingratitude  would  have  needed  to 
stand  recorded  only  until  this  year  of  our 
Lord,  to  have  been  matched  by  deeds 
of  men  who  have  thrown  this  dear  land 
of  ours  into  universal  mourning.  Yet 
our  English  brethren  would  try  to  per- 
suade us  that  these  men  are  but  repeat- 
ing the  course  and  the  deeds  of  the  Amer- 
ican Revolution ! 


THE   WILD   ENDIVE. 

Only  the  dusty  common  road, 
The  glaring  weary  heat ; 

Only  a  man  with  a  soldier's  load. 
And  the  sound  of  tired  feet. 


VOL.   VIII. 


Only  the  lonely  creaking  hum 

Of  the  Cicada's  song ; 
Only  a  fence  where  tall  weeds  come 

With  spiked  fingers  strong. 

Only  a  drop  of  the  heaven's  blue 

Left  in  a  way-side  cup  ; 
Only  a  joy  for  the  plodding  few 

And  eyes  that  look  not  up. 

Only  a  weed  to  the  passer-by, 

Growing  among  the  rest ;  — 
Yet  something  clear  as  the  light  of  the  sky 

It  lodges  in  my  breast. 
40 


626 


The   Contrabands  at  Fortress  Monroe. 


[November, 


THE    CONTRABANDS  AT   FORTRESS   MONROE. 


In  the  month  of  August,  1620,  a  Dutch 
man-of-war  from  Guinea  entered  James 
River  and  sold  "  twenty  negars."  Such  is 
the  brief  record  left  by  John  Rolfe,  whose 
name  is  honorably  associated  with  that  of 
Pocahontas.  This  was  the  first  importa- 
tion of  the  kind  into  the  country,  and  the 
source  of  existing  strifes.  It  was  fitting 
that  the  system  which  from  that  slave- 
ship  had  been  spreading  over  the  conti- 
nent for  nearly  two  centuries  and  a  half 
should  yield  for  the  first  time  to  the  logic 
of  military  law  almost  upon  the  spot  of  its 
origin.  The  coincidence  may  not  inap- 
propriately introduce  what  of  experience 
and  reflection  the  writer  has  to  relate  of 
a  three-months'  soldier's  life  in  Virginia. 

On  the  morning  of  the  22d  of  May  last, 
Major- General  Butler,  welcomed  with  a 
military  salute,  arrived  at  Fortress  Mon- 
roe, and  assumed  the  command  of  the  De- 
partment of  Virginia.  Hitherto  we  had 
been  hemmed  up  in  the  peninsula  of 
which  the  fort  occupies  the  main  part, 
and  cut  off"  from  communication  with  the 
surrounding  country.  Until  within  a  few 
days  our  forces  consisted  of  about  one 
thousand  men  belonging  to  the  Third  and 
Fourth  Regiments  of  Massachusetts  mili- 
tia, and  three  hundred  regulars.  The  only 
movement  since  our  arrival  on  the  20th  of 
April  had  been  the  expedition  to  Norfolk 
of  the  Third  Regiment,  in  which  it  was 
my  privilege  to  serve  as  a  private.  The 
fort  communicates  with  the  main-land  by 
a  dike  or  causeway  about  half  a  mile 
long,  and  a  wooden  bridge,  perhaps  three 
hundred  feet  long,  and  then  there  spreads 
out  a  tract  of  country,  well  wooded  and 
dotted  over  with  farms.  Passing  from 
this  bridge  for  a  distance  of  two  miles 
northwestward,  you  reach  a  creek  or  arm 
of  the  bay  spanned  by  another  wooden 
bridge,  and  crossing  it  you  are  at  once 
in  the  ancient  village  of  Hampton,  hav- 
ing a  population  of  some  fifteen  hundred 
inhabitants.  The  peninsula  on  which  the 
fort  stands,  the  causeway,  and  the  first 


bridge  described,  are  the  property  of  the 
United  States.  Nevertheless,  a  small  pick- 
et-guard of  the  Secessionists  had  been  ac- 
customed to  occupy  a  part  of  the  bridge, 
sometimes  coming  even  to  the  centre,  and 
a  Secession  flag  waved  in  sight  of  the 
fort.  On  the  13th  of  May,  the  Rebel 
picket-guard  was  driven  from  the  bridge, 
and  all  the  Government  property  was 
taken  possession  of  by  a  detachment  of 
two  companies  from  the  Fourth  Regi- 
ment, accompanied  by  a  dozen  regulars 
with  a  field-piece,  acting  under  the  or- 
ders of  Colonel  Dimick,  the  command- 
er of  the  post.  They  retired,  denouncing 
vengeance  on  Massachusetts  troops  for 
the  invasion  of  Virginia.  Our  pickets 
then  occupied  the  entire  bridge  and  a 
small  strip  of  the  main-land  beyond,  cov- 
ering a  valuable  well ;  but  still  there  was 
no  occupation  in  force  of  any  but  Gov- 
ernment property.  The  creation  of  a  new 
military  department,  to  the  command  of 
which  a  major-general  was  assigned,  was 
soon  to  terminate  this  isolation.  On  the 
13  th  of  May  the  First  Vermont  Regiment 
arrived,  on  the  24th  the  Second  New 
York,  and  two  weeks  later  our  forces 
numbered  nearly  ten  thousand. 

On  the  23d  of  May  General  Butler 
ordered  the  first  reconnoitring  expedi- 
tion, which  consisted  of  a  part  of  the 
Vermont  Regiment,  and  proceeded  un- 
der the  command  of  Colonel  Phelps  over 
the  dike  and  bridge  towards  Hampton. 
They  were  anticipated,  and  when  in  sight 
of  the  second  bridge  saw  that  it  had  been 
set  on  fire,  and,  hastening  forward,  ex- 
tinguished the  flames.  The  detachment 
then  marched  into  the  village.  A  parley 
was  held  with  a  Secession  officer,  who  rep- 
resented thfat  the  men  in  arms  in  Hamp- 
ton were  only  a  domestic  police.  Mean- 
while the  white  inhabitants,  particularly 
the  women,  had  generally  disappeared. 
The  negroes  gathered  around  our  men, 
and  their  evident  exhilaration  was  partic- 
ularly noted,  some  of  them  saying,  "  Glad 


1861.] 


Tlie  Contrahands  at  Fortress  Monroe, 


627 


to  see  you,  Massa,"  and  betraying  the  fact, 
that,  on  the  approach  of  the  detachment, 
a  field-piece  stationed  at  the  bridge  had 
been  thrown  into  the  sea.  This  was  the 
first  communication  between  our  army 
and  the  negroes  in  this  department. 

The  reconnoissance  of  the  day  had  more 
important  results  than  were  anticipated. 
Three  negroes,  owned  by  Colonel  Mal- 
lory,  a  lawyer  of  Hampton  and  a  Rebel 
officer,  taking  advantage  of  the  terror 
prevailing  among  the  white  inhabitants, 
escaped  from  their  master,  skulked  dur- 
ing the  afternoon,  and  in  the  night  came 
to  our  pickets.  The  next  morning,  May 
24th,  they  were  brought  to  General  But- 
ler, and  there,  for  the  first  time,  stood  the 
Major-General  and  the  fugitive  slave  face 
to  face.  Being  carefully  interrogated,  it 
appeared  that  they  were  field-hands,  the 
slaves  of  an  officer  in  the  Rebel  service, 
who  purposed  taking  them  to  Carolina  to 
be  employed  in  miHtary  operations  there. 
Two  of  them  had  wives  in  Hampton,  one 
a  free  colored  woman,  and  they  had  sev- 
eral children  in  the  neighborhood.  Here 
was  a  new  question,  and  a  grave  one,  on 
which  the  Government  had  as  yet  devel- 
oped no  policy.  In  the  absence  of  pre- 
cedents or  instructions,  an  analogy  drawn 
from  international  law  was  applied.  Un- 
der that  law,  contraband  goods,  which 
are  directly  auxiUary  to  military  opera- 
tions, cannot  in  time  of  war  be  imported 
by  neutrals  into  an  enemy's  country,  and 
may  be  seized  as  lawful  prize  when  the 
attempt  is  made  so  to  import  them.  It 
■will  be  seen,  that,  accurately  speaking, 
the  term  applies  exclusively  to  the  rela- 
tion between  a  belligerent  and  a  neutral, 
and  not  to  the  relation  between  belliger- 
ents. Under  the  strict  law  of  nations,  all 
the  property  of  an  enemy  may  be  seized. 
Under  the  Common  Law,  the  property  of 
traitors  is  forfeit.  The  humaner  usage 
of  modern  times  favors  the  waiving  of 
these  strict  rights,  but  allows,  without 
question,  the  seizure  and  confiscation  of 
all  such  goods  as  are  immediately  aux- 
iliary to  military  purposes.  These  able- 
bodied  negroes,  held  as  slaves,  were  to 
be  employed  to  build  breastworks,   to 


transport  or  store  provisions,  to  serve  as 
cooks  or  waiters,  and  even  to  bear  arms. 
Regarded  as  property,  according  to  their 
master's  claim,  they  could  be  efficiently 
used  by  the  Rebels  for  the  purposes  of 
the  Rebellion,  and  most  efficiently  by  the 
Government  in  suppressing  it.  Regard- 
ed as  persons,  they  had  escaped  from  com- 
munities where  a  triumphant  rebellion 
had  trampled  on  the  laws,  and  only  the 
rights  of  human  nature  remained,  and 
they  now  asked  the  protection  of  the  Gov- 
ernment, to  which,  in  prevailing  treason, 
they  were  still  loyal,  and  which  they  were 
ready  to  serve  as  best  they  could. 

The  three  negroes,  being  held  contra- 
band of  war,  were  at  once  set  to  work  to 
aid  the  masons  in  constructing  a  new 
bakehouse  within  the  fort.  Thencefor- 
ward the  term  "  contraband  '*  bore  a  new 
signification,  with  which  it  will  pass  into 
history,  designating  the  negroes  who  had 
been  held  as  slaves,  now  adopted  under 
the  protection  of  the  Government.  It 
was  used  in  official  communications  at 
the  fort.  It  was  applied  familiarly  to  the 
negroes,  who  stared  somewhat,  inquiring, 
"  What  d'  ye  call  us  that  for  V  "  Not 
having  Wheaton's  "  Elements  "  at  hand, 
we  did  not  attempt  an  explanation.  The 
contraband  notion  was  adopted  by  Con- 
gress in  the  Act  of  July  6  th,  which  con- 
fiscates slaves  used  in  aiding  the  Insur- 
rection. There  is  often  great  virtue  in 
such  technical  phrases  in  shaping  public 
opinion.  They  commend  practical  ac- 
tion to  a  class  of  minds  little  developed 
in  the  direction  of  the  sentiments,  which 
would  be  repelled  by  formulas  of  a  broad- 
er and  nobler  import.  The  venerable 
gentleman,  who  wears  gold  spectacles 
and  reads  a  conservative  daily,  prefers 
confiscation  to  emancipation.  He  is  re- 
luctant to  have  slaves  declared  freemen, 
but  has  no  objection  to  their  being  de- 
clared contrabands.  His  whole  nature  ris- 
es in  insurrection  when  Beecher  preach- 
es in  a  sermon  that  a  thing  ought  to  be 
done  because  it  is  a  duty,  but  he  yields 
gracefully  when  Butler  issues  an  order 
commanding  it  to  be  done  because  it  is 
a  military  necessity. 


628 


Hie   Contrabands  at  Fortress  Monroe. 


[November, 


On  the  next  day,  Major  John  B.  Cary, 
another  Rebel  officer,  late  principal  of  an 
academy  in  Hampton,  a  delegate  to  the 
Charleston  Convention,  and  a  seceder 
with  General  Butler  from  the  Conven- 
tion at  Baltimore,  came  to  the  fort  with  a 
flag  of  truce,  and,  claiming  to  act  as  the 
representative  of  Colonel  Mallory,  de- 
manded the  fugitives.  He  reminded  Gen- 
eral Butler  of  his  obligations  under  the 
Federal  Constitution,  under  which  he 
claimed  to  act.  The  ready  reply  was, 
that  the  Fugitive-Slave  Act  could  not  be 
invoked  for  the  reclamation  of  fugitives 
from  a  foreign  State,  which  Virginia  claim- 
ed to  be,  and  she  must  count  it  among 
the  infelicities  of  her  position,  if  so  far  at 
least  she  was  taken  at  her  word. 

The  three  pioneer  negroes  were  not 
long  to  be  isolated  from  their  race.  There 
was  no  known  channel  of  communication 
between  them  and  their  old  comrades, 
and  yet  those  comrades  knew,  or  believed 
with  the  certainty  of  knowledge,  how  they 
had  been  received.  If  inquired  of  wheth- 
er more  were  coming,  their  reply  was,  that, 
if  they  were  not  sent  back,  others  would 
understand  that  they  were  among  friends, 
and  more  would  come  the  next  day.  Such 
is  the  mysterious  spiritual  telegraph  which 
runs  through  the  slave  population.  Pro- 
claim an  edict  of  emancipation  in  the 
hearing  of  a  single  slave  on  the  Potomac, 
and  in  a  few  days  it  will  be  known  by 
his  brethren  on  the  Gulf.  So,  on  the  night 
of  the  Big  Bethel  aifair,  a  squad  of  ne- 
groes, meeting  our  soldiers,  inquired  anx- 
iously the  way  to  "  the  freedom  fort." 

The  means  of  communicating  with  the 
fort  from  the  open  country  became  more 
easy,  when,  on  the  24th  of  May,  (the 
same  day  on  which  the  first  movement 
was  made  from  Washington  into  Vir- 
ginia,) the  Second  New  York  Regiment 
made  its  encampment  on  the  Segar  farm, 
lying  near  the  bridge  which  connect- 
ed the  fort  with  the  main-land,  an  en- 
campment soon  enlarged  by  the  First 
Vermont  and  other  New  York  regiments. 
On  Sunday  morning.  May  26th,  eight 
negroes  stood  before  the  quarters  of  Gen- 
eral   Butler,  waiting  for  an  audience. 


They  were  examined  in  part  by  the  Hon. 
Mr.  Ashley,  M.  C.  from  Ohio,  then  a 
visitor  at  the  fort.  On  May  27th,  forty- 
seven  negroes  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages, 
from  three  months  to  eighty-five  years, 
among  whom  were  half  a  dozen  entire 
families,  came  in  one  squad.  Another 
lot  of  a  dozen  good  field-hands  arrived 
the  same  day ;  and  then  they  continued 
to  come  by  twenties,  thirties,  and  forties. 
They  were  assigned  buildings  outside  of 
the  fort  or  tents  within.  They  were  set 
to  work  as  servants  to  oflicers,  or  to  store 
provisions  landed  from  vessels, — thus  re- 
lieving us  of  the  fatigue  duty  which  we 
had  previously  done,  except  that  of  drag- 
ging and  mounting  columbiads  on  the 
ramparts  of  the  fort,  a  service  which 
some  very  warm  days  have  impressed  on 
my  memory. 

On  the  27th  of  May,  the  Fourth  Massa- 
chusetts Regiment,  the  First  Vermont,  and 
some  New  York  regiments  made  an  ad- 
vance movement  and  occupied  Newport 
News,  (a  promontory  named  for  Captain 
Christopher  Newport,  the  early  explorer,) 
so  as  more  effectually  to  enforce  the  block- 
ade of  James  River.  There,  too,  negroes 
came  in,  who  were  employed  as  servants 
to  the  officers.  One  of  them,  when  we  left 
the  fort,  more  fortunate  than  his  com- 
rades, and  aided  by  a  benevolent  cap- 
tain, eluded  the  vigilance  of  the  Provost 
Marshal,  and  is  now  the  curiosity  of  a  vil- 
lage in  the  neighborhood  of  Boston. 

It  was  now  time  to  call  upon  the  Gov- 
ernment for  a  policy  in  dealing  with 
slave  society  thus  disrupted  and  disor- 
ganized. Elsewhere,  even  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Capitol,  the  action  of  mil- 
itary officers  had  been  irregular,  and  in 
some  cases  in  palpable  violation  of  per- 
sonal rights.  An  order  of  General  Mc- 
Dowell excluded  all  slaves  from  the  lines. 
Sometimes  officers  assumed  to  decide  the 
question  whether  a  negro  was  a  slave, 
and  deliver  him  to  a  claimant,  when, 
certainly  in  the  absence  of  martial  law, 
they  had  no  authority  in  the  premises, 
under  the  Act  of  Congress,  —  that  pow- 
er being  confided  to  commissioners  and 
marshals.    As  well  might  a  member  of 


1861.] 


The   Contrabands  at  Fortress  Monroe. 


629 


Congress  or  a  State  sheriff  usurp  the 
function.  Worse  yet,  in  defiance  of  the 
Common  Law,  they  made  color  a  pre- 
sumptive proof  of  bondage.  In  one  case 
a  free  negro  was  delivered  to  a  claim- 
ant under  this  process,  more  summary 
than  any  which  the  Fugitive-Slave  Act 
provides.  The  colonel  of  a  Massachu- 
setts regiment  showed  some  practical 
humor  in  dealing  with  a  pertinacious 
claimant  who  asserted  title  to  a  negro 
found  within  his  lines,  and  had  brought 
a  policeman  along  with  him  to  aid  in  en- 
forcing it.  The  shrewd  colonel,  (a  Dem- 
ocrat he  is,)  retaining  the  policeman,  put 
both  the  claimant  and  claimed  outside  of 
the  lines  together  to  try  their  fleetness. 
The  negro  proved  to  be  the  better  gym- 
nast and  was  heard  of  no  more.  This 
capricious  treatment  of  the  subject  was 
fraught  with  serious  difficulties  as  well  as 
personal  injuries,  and  it  needed  to  be  dis- 
placed by  an  authorized  system. 

On  the  27th  of  May,  General  Butler, 
having  in  a  previous  communication  re- 
ported his  interview  with  Major  Cary,  call- 
ed the  attention  of  the  War  Department 
to  the  subject  in  a  formal  despatch, — 
indicating  the  hostile  purposes  for  which 
the  negroes  had  been  or  might  be  success- 
fully used,  stating  the  course  he  had  pur- 
sued in  employing  them  and  recording  ex- 
penses and  services,  and  suggesting  perti- 
nent military,  political,  and  humane  con- 
siderations. The  Secretary  of  War,  under 
date  of  the  30th  of  May,  replied,  cautious- 
ly approving  the  course  of  General  But- 
ler, and  intimating  distinctions  between 
interfering  with  the  relations  of  persons 
held  to  service  and  refusing  to  surrender 
them  to  their  alleged  masters,  which  it 
is  not  easy  to  reconcile  with  well-defined 
views  of  the  new  exigency,  or  at  least 
with  a  desire  to  express  them.  The  note 
was  characterized  by  diplomatic  reserve 
which  it  will  probably  be  found  difficult 
long  to  maintain. 

The  ever-recurring  question  continued 
to  press  for  solution.  On  the  6  th  of  July 
the  Act  of  Congress  was  approved,  declar- 
ing that  any  person  claiming  the  labor  of 
another  to  be  due  to  him,  and  permitting 


such  party  to  be  employed  in  any  mili- 
tary or  naval  service  whatsoever  against 
the  Government  of  the  United  States, 
shall  forfeit  his  claim  to  such  labor,  and 
proof  of  such  employment  shall  there- 
after be  a  full  answer  to  the  claim.  This 
act  was  designed  for  the  direction  of  the 
civil  magistrate,  and  not  for  the  limita- 
tion of  powers  derived  from  military 
law.  That  law,  founded  on  solus  reir 
publicce,  transcends  all  codes,  and  lies  out- 
side of  forms  and  statutes.  John  Quin- 
cy  Adams,  almost  prophesying  as  he  ex- 
pounded, declared,  in  1842,  that  under 
it  slavery  might  be  abolished.  Under 
it,  therefore.  Major- General  Fremont, 
in  a  recent  proclamation,  declared  the 
slaves  of  all  persons  within  his  depart- 
ment, who  were  in  arms  against  the  Gov- 
ernment, to  be  freemen,  and  under  it  has 
given  title-deeds  of  manumission.  Sub- 
sequently President  Lincoln  limited  the 
proclamation  to  such  slaves  as  are  in- 
cluded in  the  Act  of  Congress,  namely, 
the  slaves  of  Kebels  used  in  directly  hos- 
tile service.  The  country  had  called  for 
Jacksonian  courage,  and  its  first  exhibi- 
tion was  promptly  suppressed.  If  the 
revocation  was  made  in  deference  to  pro- 
tests from  Kentucky,  it  seems,  that,  while 
the  loyal  citizens  of  Missouri  appeared 
to  approve  the  decisive  measure,  they 
were  overruled  by  the  more  potential 
voice  of  other  communities  who  profess- 
ed to  understand  their  affairs  better  than 
they  did  themselves.  But  if,  as  is  admit- 
ted, the  commanding  officer,  in  the  pleni- 
tude of  military  power,  was  authorized  to 
make  the  order  within  his  department, 
all  human  beings  included  in  the  procla- 
mation thereby  acquired  a  vested  title 
to  their  freedom,  of  which  neither  Con- 
gress nor  President  could  dispossess  them. 
No  conclusive  behests  of  law  necessitat- 
ing the  limitation,  it  cannot  rest  on  any 
safe  reasons  of  military  policy.  The  one 
slave  who  carries  his  master's  knapsack 
on  a  march  contributes  far  less  to  the  ef- 
ficiency of  the  Rebel  army  than  the  one 
hundred  slaves  who  hoe  corn  on  his  plan- 
tation with  which  to  replenish  its  commis- 
sariat.    We  have  not  yet  emerged  from 


630 


The  Contrabands  at  Fortress  Monroe, 


[November, 


the  fine-drawn  distinctions  of  peaceful 
times.  We  may  imprison  or  slaughter  a 
Kebel,  but  we  may  not  unloose  his  hold 
on  a  person  he  has  claimed  as  a  slave. 
We  may  seize  all  his  other  property  with- 
out question,  lands,  houses,  cattle,  jewels ; 
but  his  asserted  property  in  man  is  more 
sacred  than  the  gold  which  overlay  the 
Ark  of  the  Covenant,  and  we  may  not  pro- 
fane it.  This  reverence  for  things  assum- 
ed to  be  sacred,  which  are  not  so,  cannot 
long  continue.  The  Government  can 
well  turn  away  from  the  enthusiast,  how- 
ever generous  his  impulses,  who  asks  the 
abolition  of  slavery  on  general  principles 
of  philanthropy,  for  the  reason  that  it  al- 
ready has  work  enough  on  its  hands.  It 
may  not  change  the  objects  of  the  war, 
but  it  must  of  necessity  at  times  shift  its 
tactics  and  its  instruments,  as  the  exigen- 
cy demands.  Its  solemn  and  imperative 
duty  is  to  look  every  issue,  however  grave 
and  transcendent,  firmly  in  the  face ;  and 
having  ascertained  upon  mature  and  con- 
scientious reflection  what  is  necessary  to 
suppress  the  Rebellion,  it  must  then  pro- 
ceed with  inexorable  purpose  to  inflict 
the  blows  where  Rebellion  is  the  weak- 
est and  under  which  it  must  inevitably 
fall. 

On  the  30th  of  July,  General  Butler, 
being  still  unprovided  with  adequate  in- 
structions, —  the  number  of  contrabands 
having  now  reached  nine  hundred, — 
applied  to  the  War  Department  for  fur- 
ther directions.  His  inquiries,  inspired 
by  good  sense  and  humanity  alike,  were 
of  the  most  fundamental  character,  and 
when  they  shall  have  received  a  full  an- 
swer the  war  will  be  near  its  end.  As- 
suming the  slaves  to  have  been  the  prop- 
erty of  masters,  he  considers  them  waifs 
abandoned  by  their  owners,  in  which  the 
Government  as  a  finder  cannot,  howev- 
er, acquire  a  proprietary  interest,  and 
they  have  therefore  reverted  to  the  nor- 
mal condition  of  those  made  in  God's 
image,  "  if  not  free-born,  yet  free-manu- 
mitted, sent  forth  from  the  hand  that 
held  them,  never  to  return."  The  au- 
thor of  that  document  may  never  win  a 
victor's  laurels  on  any  renowned  field, 


but,  depositing  it  in  the  archives  of  the 
Government,  he  leaves  a  record  in  his- 
tory which  will  outlast  the  traditions  of 
battle  or  siege.  It  is  proper  to  add,  that 
the  answer  of  the  War  Department,  so 
far  as  its  meaning  is  clear,  leaves  the  Gen- 
eral uninstructed  as  to  all  slaves  not  con- 
fiscated by  the  Act  of  Congress. 

The  documentary  history  being  now 
completed,  the  personal  narrative  of  af- 
fairs at  Fortress  Monroe  is  resumed. 

The  encampment  of  Federal  troops 
beyond  the  peninsula  of  the  fort  and  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  village  of  Hampton 
was  immediately  followed  by  an  hegira 
of  its  white  inhabitants,  burning,  as  they 
fled,  as  much  of  the  bridge  as  they  could. 
On  the  28th  of  May,  a  detachment  of 
troops  entered  the  village  and  hoisted  the 
stars  and  stripes  on  the  house  of  Colonel 
Mallory.  Picket-guards  occupied  it  in- 
termittently during  the  month  of  June. 
It  was  not  until  the  first  day  of  July  that 
a  permanent  encampment  was  made 
there,  consisting  of  the  Third  Massachu- 
setts Regiment,  which  moved  from  the 
fort,  the  Fourth,  which  moved  from  New- 
port News,  and  the  Naval  Brigade,  all 
under  the  command  of  Brigadier- Gen- 
eral Pierce, —  the  camp  being  informal- 
ly called  Camp  Greble,  in  honor  of  the 
lieutenant  of  that  name  who  fell  brave- 
ly in  the  disastrous  affair  of  Big  Bethel. 
Here  we  remained  until  July  16th,  when, 
our  term  of  enlistment  having  expired, 
we  bade  adieu  to  Hampton,  its  ancient 
relics,  its  deserted  houses,  its  venerable 
church,  its  trees  and  gardens,  its  con- 
trabands, all  so  soon  to  be  wasted  and 
scattered  by  the  torch  of  Virginia  Van- 
dals. We  passed  over  the  bridge,  the 
rebuilding  of  which  was  completed  the 
day  before,  marched  to  the  fort,  exchang- 
ed our  rifle  muskets  for  an  older  pattern, 
listened  to  a  farewell  address  from  Gen- 
eral Butler,  bade  good-bye  to  Colonel 
Dimick,  and  embarked  for  Boston.  It 
was  during  this  encampment  at  Hamp- 
ton, and  two  previous  visits,  somewhat 
hurried,  while  as  yet  it  was  without  a 
permanent  guard,  that  my  personal 
knowledge  of  the  negroes,  of  their  feel- 


1861.] 


The  Contrabands  at  Fortress  Monroe. 


631 


ings,  desires,  aspirations,  capacities,  and 
habits  of  life  was  mainly  obtained. 

A  few  words  of  local  history  and  de- 
scription may  illustrate  the  narrative. 
Hampton  is  a  town  of  considerable  his- 
toric interest.  First  among  civilized  men 
the  illustrious  adventurer  Captain  John 
Smith  with  his  comrades  visited  its  site 
in  1607,  while  exploring  the  mouth  of 
James  River  to  find  a  home  for  the  first 
colonists.  Here  they  smoked  the  calu- 
met of  peace  with  an  Indian  tribe.  To 
the  neighboring  promontory,  where  they 
found  good  anchorage  and  hospitality, 
they  gave  the  name  of  Point  Comfort, 
which  it  still  bears.  Hampton,  though 
a  settlement  was  commenced  there  in 
1610,  did  not  become  a  town  until  1705. 
Hostile  fleets  have  twice  appeared  be- 
fore it.  The  first  time  was  in  October, 
1775,  when  some  tenders  sent  by  Lord 
Dunmore  to  destroy  it  were  repulsed  by 
the  citizens,  aided  by  the  Culpepper  rifle- 
men. Then  and  there  was  the  first  bat- 
tle of  the  Revolution  in  Virginia.  Again 
in  June,  1813,  it  was  attacked  by  Ad- 
miral Cockburn  and  General  Beckwith, 
and  scenes  of  pillage  followed,  dishonorar 
ble  to  the  British  soldiery.  Jackson,  in  his 
address  to  his  army  just  before  the  Battle 
of  New  Orleans,  conjured  his  soldiers 
to  remember  Hampton.  Until  the  re- 
cent conflagration,  it  abounded  in  an- 
cient relics.  Among  them  was  St.  John's 
Church,  the  main  body  of  which  was  of 
imported  brick,  and  built  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  eighteenth  century.  The  fury 
of  Secession  irreverently  destroyed  this 
memorial  of  antiquity  and  religion,  which 
even  a  foreign  soldiery  had  spared.  One 
inscription  in  the  graveyard  surrounding 
the  church  is  as  early  as  1701,  and  even 
earlier  dates  are  found  on  tombstones 
in  the  fields  a  mile  distant.  The  Court- 
House,  a  clumsy  old  structure,  in  which 
was  the  law-office  of  Colonel  Mallory, 
contained  judicial  records  of  a  very  early 
colonial  period.  Some,  which  I  exam- 
ined, bore  date  of  1634.  Several  old 
houses,  with  spacious  rooms  and  high  or- 
namented ceilings,  gave  evidence  that  at 
one  time  they  had  been  occupied  by  citi- 


zens of  considerable  taste  and  rank.  A 
friend  of  mine  found  among  the  rub- 
bish of  a  deserted  house  an  EngUsh  il- 
lustrated edition  of  "  Paradise  Lost,"  of 
the  date  of  1725,  and  Boyle's  Oxford  edi- 
tion of  «  The  Epistles  of  Phalaris,"  fa- 
mous in  classical  controversy,  printed  in 
1718.  The  proximity  of  Fortress  Mon- 
roe, of  the  fashionable  watering-place 
of  Old  Point,  and  of  the  anchorage  of 
Hampton  Roads,  has  contributed  to  the 
interest  of  the  town.  To  this  region 
came  in  summer-time  public  men  weary 
of  their  cares,  army  and  navy  officers  on 
furlough  or  retired,  and  the  gay  daugh- 
ters of  Virginia.  In  front  of  the  fort, 
looking  seaward,  was  the  summer  resi- 
dence of  Floyd;  between  the  fort  and 
the  town  was  that  of  John  Tyler.  Presi- 
dent Jackson  sought  refuge  from  care 
and  solicitation  at  the  Rip  Raps,  whith- 
er he  was  followed  by  his  devoted  friend, 
Mr.  Blair.  So  at  least  a  contraband  in- 
formed me,  who  said  he  had  often  seen 
them  both  there. 

Nevertheless,  the  town  bore  no  evi- 
dence of  thrift.  It  looked  as  though  it 
were  sleepy  and  indolent  in  the  best  of 
times,  having  oysters  for  its  chief  mer- 
chandise. The  streets  were  paved,  but 
the  pavements  were  of  large  irregular 
stones,  and  unevenly  laid.  Few  houses 
were  new,  and,  excepting  St.  John's 
Church,  the  public  edifices  were  mean. 
All  these  have  been  swept  away  by  the 
recent  conflagration,  a  waste  of  proper- 
ty indefensible  on  any  military  prin- 
ciples. The  buildings  might  have  fur- 
nished winter-quarters  for  our  troops,  but 
in  that  climate  they  were  not  necessary 
for  that  purpose,  perhaps  not  desirable, 
or,  if  required,  could  be  easily  replaced 
by  temporary  habitations  constructed  of 
lumber  imported  from  the  North  by  sea. 
But  the  Rebel  chiefs  had  thrown  them- 
selves into  heroic  attitudes,  and  while 
playing  the  part  of  incendiaries,  they 
fancied  their  action  to  be  as  sublime  as 
that  of  the  Russians  at  Moscow.  With 
such  a  precedent  of  Vandalism,  no  rav- 
ages of  our  own  troops  can  hereafter  be 
complained  of. 


632 


The  Contrabands  at  Fortress  Monroe. 


[November, 


The  prevailing  exodus,  leaving  less  than 
a  dozen  white  men  behind,  testifies  the  po- 
litical feelings  of  the  people.  Only  two 
votes  were  thrown  against  the  ordinance 
of  Secession.  Whatever  of  Union  senti- 
ment existed  there  had  been  swept  away 
by  such  demagogues  as  Mallory,  Gary, 
Magruder,  Shiels,  and  Hope.  Hastily  as 
they  left,  they  removed  in  most  cases  all 
their  furniture,  leaving  only  the  old  Vir- 
ginia sideboard,  too  heavy  to  be  taken 
away.  In  a  few  exceptional  cases,  from 
the  absence  of  the  owner  or  other  cause, 
the  house  was  still  furnished ;  but  gener- 
ally nothing  but  old  letters,  torn  books, 
newspapers,  cast-oif  clothing,  strewed  the 
floors.  Rarely  have  I  enjoyed  the  hours 
more  than  when  roaming  from  cellar  to 
garret  these  tenantless  houses.  A  desert- 
ed dwelling !  How  the  imagination  is 
fascinated  by  what  may  have  there  trans- 
pired of  human  joy  or  sorrow, —  the  soli- 
tary struggles  of  the  soul  for  better  things, 
the  dawn  and  the  fruition  of  love,  the 
separations  and  reunions  of  families,  the 
hearth-stone  consecrated  by  affection  and 
prayer,  the  bridal  throng,  the  birth  of 
new  lives,  the  farewells  to  the  world,  the 
funeral  train. 

But  more  interesting  and  instructive 
were  the  features  of  slave-life  which  here 
opened  to  us.  The  negroes  who  remain- 
ed, of  whom  there  may  have  been  three 
hundred  of  all  ages,  lived  in  small  wood- 
en shanties,  generally  in  the  rear  of  the 
master's  house,  rarely  having  more  than 
one  room  on  the  lower  floor,  and  that 
containing  an  open  fireplace  where  the 
cooking  for  the  master's  family  was  done, 
tables,  chairs,  dishes,  and  the  miscellane- 
ous utensils  of  household  life.  The  mas- 
ters had  taken  with  them,  generally,  their 
waiting -maids  and  house -servants,  and 
had  desired  to  carry  all  their  slaves  with 
them.  But  in  the  hasty  preparations,  — 
particularly  where  the  slaves  were  living 
away  from  their  master's  close,  or  had  a 
family,  —  it  was  difficult  to  remove  them 
against  their  will,  as  they  could  skulk  for 
a  few  hours  and  then  go  where  they  pleas- 
ed. Some  voluntarily  left  their  slaves 
behind,  not  having  the  means  to  provide 


for  them,  or,  anticipating  a  return  at  no 
distant  day,  desired  them  to  stay  and 
guard  the  property.  The  slaves  who  re- 
mained lived  upon  the  little  pork  and 
corn-meal  that  were  left  and  the  growing 
vegetables.  They  had  but  little  to  do. 
The  women  looked  after  their  meagre 
household  concerns,  but  the  men  were 
generally  idle,  standing  in  groups,  or  sit- 
tino;  in  front  of  the  shanties  talking  with 
the  women.  Some  began  to  serve  our 
oflicers  as  soon  as  we  were  quartered  in 
the  town,  while  a  few  others  set  up  cake- 
stands  upon  the  street. 

It  was  necessary  for  the  protection  of 
the  post  that  some  breastworks  should 
be  thrown  up,  and  a  line  was  plan- 
ned extending  from  the  old  cemetery 
northward  to  the  new  one,  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  distant.  Our  own  troops  were 
disinclined  to  the  labor,  their  time  be- 
ing nearly  expired,  and  they  claiming 
that  they  had  done  their  share  of  fatigue 
duty  both  at  the  fort  and  at  Newport 
News.  A  member  of  Brigadier-General 
Pierce's  stafl" —  an  efficient  officer  and  a 
humane  gentleman  —  suggested  the  em- 
ployment of  the  contrabands  and  the  fur- 
nishing of  them  with  rations,  an  expe- 
dient best  for  them  and  agreeable  to  us. 
He  at  once  dictated  a  telegram  to  Gen- 
eral Butler  in  these  words  :  —  "  Shall  we 
put  the  contrabands  to  work  on  the  in- 
trenchments,  and  will  you  furnish  them 
with  rations  ?  "  An  affirmative  answer 
was  promptly  received  on  Monday  morn- 
ing, July  8th,  and  that  was  the  first  day 
in  the  course  of  the  war  in  which  the 
negro  was  employed  upon  the  military 
works  of  our  army.  It  therefore  marks 
a  distinct  epoch  in  its  progress  and  in  its 
relations  to  the  colored  population.  The 
writer  —  and  henceforth  his  narrative 
must  indulge  in  the  frequent  use  of  the 
first  person  —  was  specially  detailed  from 
his  post  as  private  in  Company  L  of  the 
Third  Regiment  to  collect  the  contra- 
bands, record  their  names,  ages,  and  the 
names  of  their  masters,  provide  their  tools, 
superintend  their  labor,  and  procure  their 
rations.  My  comrades  smiled,  as  I  under- 
took the  novel  duty,  enjoying  the  spec- 


1861.] 


TTie   Oontrahands  at  Fortress  Monroe. 


633 


tacle  of  a  Massachusetts  Kepublican  con- 
verted into  a  Virginia  slave-master.  To 
me  it  seemed  rather  an  opportunity  to 
lead  them  from  the  house  of  bondage  nev- 
er to  return.  For,  whatever  may  be  the 
general  duty  to  this  race,  to  all  such  as 
we  have  in  any  way  employed  to  aid  our 
armies  our  national  faith  and  our  per- 
sonal honor  are  pledged.  The  code  of 
a  gentleman,  to  say  nothing  of  a  higher 
law  of  rectitude,  necessitates  protection 
to  this  extent.  Abandoning  one  of  these 
faithful  allies,  who,  if  delivered  up,  would 
be  reduced  to  severer  servitude  because 
of  the  education  he  had  received  and  the 
services  he  had  performed,  probably  to  be 
transported  to  the  remotest  slave  region 
as  now  too  dangerous  to  remain  near  its 
borders,  we  should  be  accursed  among  the 
nations  of  the  earth.  I  felt  assured  that 
from  that  hour,  whatsoever  the  fortunes 
of  the  war,  every  one  of  those  enrolled 
defenders  of  the  Union  had  vindicated 
beyond  all  future  question,  for  himself,  his 
wife,  and  their  issue,  a  title  to  American 
citizenship,  and  become  heir  to  all  the 
immunities  of  Magna  Charta,  the  Decla- 
ration of  Independence,  and  the  Consti- 
tution of  the  United  States. 

Passing  through  the  principal  streets, 
I  told  the  contrabands  that  when  they 
heard  the  court-house  bell,  which  would 
ring  soon,  they  must  go  to  the  court- 
house yard,  where  a  communication 
would  be  made  to  them.  In  the  mean 
time  I  secured  the  valuable  services  of 
some  fellow-privates,  one  for  a  quarter- 
master, two  others  to  aid  in  superintend- 
ing at  the  trenches,  and  the  orderly-ser- 
geant of  my  own  company,  whose  expert- 
ness  in  the  drill  was  equalled  only  by 
his  general  good  sense  and  business  ca- 
pacity. Upon  the  ringing  of  the  bell, 
about  forty  contrabands  came  to  the 
yard.  A  second  exploration  added  to 
the  number  some  twenty  or  more,  who 
had  not  heard  the  original  summons. 
They  then  came  into  the  building,  where 
they  were  called  to  order  and  addressed. 
I  had  argued  to  judges  and  juries,  but  I 
had  never  spoken  to  such  auditors  before 
in  a  court-room.     I  told  them  that  the 


colored  men  had  been  employed  on  the 
breastworks  of  the  Rebels,  and  we  need- 
ed their  aid,  —  that  they  would  be  requir- 
ed to  do  only  such  labor  as  we  ourselves 
had  done, — that  they  should  be  treated 
kindly,  and  no  one  should  be  obliged  to 
work  beyond  his  capacity,  or  if  unwell, 
—  and  that  they  should  be  furnished  in  a 
day  or  two  with  full  soldiers'  rations.  I 
told  them  that  their  masters  had  said  they 
were  an  indolent  people,  —  that  I  did  not 
believe  the  charge,  —  that  I  was  going 
home  to  Massachusetts  soon  and  should 
be  glad  to  report  that  they  were  as  indus- 
trious as  the  whites.  They  generally 
showed  no  displeasure,  some  even  say- 
ing, that,  not  having  done  much  for  some 
time,  it  was  the  best  thing  for  them  to  be 
now  employed.  Four  or  five  men  over 
fifty  years  old  said  that  they  suffered  from 
rheumatism,  and  could  not  work  without 
injury.  Being  confirmed  by  the  by-stand- 
ers,  they  were  dismissed.  Other  old  men 
said  they  would  do  what  they  could,  and 
they  were  assured  that  no  more  would  be 
required  of  them.  Two  of  them,  provid- 
ed with  a  bucket  and  dipper,  were  de- 
tailed to  carry  water  all  the  time  along 
the  line  of  laborers.  Two  young  men 
fretted  a  Httle,  and  claimed  to  be  dis- 
abled in  some  way.  They  were  told 
to  resume  their  seats,  and  try  first  and 
see  what  they  could  do,  —  to  the  evident 
amusement  of  the  rest,  who  knew  them  to 
be  indolent  and  disposed  to  shirk.  A  few 
showed  some  sulkiness,  but  it  all  passed 
away  after  the  first  day,  when  they  found 
that  they  were  to  be  used  kindly.  One 
well-dressed  young  man,  a  carpenter,  feel- 
ing a  little  better  than  his  associates,  did 
not  wear  a  pleasant  face  at  first.  Finding 
out  his  trade,  we  set  him  to  sawing  the 
posts  for  the  intrenchments,  and  he  was 
entirely  reconciled.  Free  colored  men 
were  not  required  to  work  ;  but  one  vol- 
unteered, wishing,  as  he  said,  to  do  his 
part.  The  contrabands  complained  that 
the  free  colored  men  ought  to  be  re- 
quired to  work  on  the  intrenchments  as 
well  as  they.  I  thought  so  too,  but  fol- 
lowed my  orders.  A  few  expressed  some 
concern  lest  their  masters  should  punish 


634 


The   Contrabands  at  Fortress  Monroe, 


[November, 


them  for  serving  us,  if  they  ever  returned. 
One  inquired  suspiciously  why  we  took 
the  name  of  his  master.  My  reply  was, 
that  it  was  taken  in  order  to  identify 
them,  —  an  explanation  with  which  he 
was  more  satisfied  than  I  was  myself. 
Several  were  without  shoes,  and  said 
that  they  could  not  drive  the  shovel  into 
the  earth.  They  were  told  to  use  the 
picks.  The  rest  of  the  forenoon  being 
occupied  in  registering  their  names  and 
ages,  and  the  names  of  their  masters,  they 
were  dismissed  to  come  together  on  the 
ringing  of  the  bell,  at  two,  p.  m. 

It  had  been  expressly  understood  that 
I  was  to  have  the  exclusive  control  and 
supervision  of  the  negroes,  directing  their 
hours  of  labor  and  their  rests,  without  in- 
terference from  any  one.  The  work  it- 
self was  to  be  planned  and  superintend- 
ed by  the  officers  of  the  Third  and  Fourth 
Regiments.  This  exclusive  control  of  the 
men  was  necessarily  confided  to  one,  as 
different  lieutenants  detailed  each  day 
could  not  feel  a  responsibility  for  their 
welfare.  One  or  two  of  these,  when  rests 
were  allowed  the  negroes,  were  some- 
what disgusted,  saying  that  negroes  could 
dig  all  the  time  as  well  as  not.  I  had 
had  some  years  before  an  experience  with 
the  use  of  the  shovel  under  a  warm  sun, 
and  knew  better,  and  I  wished  I  could 
superintend  a  corps  of  lieutenants  and 
apply  their  own  theory  to  themselves. 

At  two,  P.  M.,  the  contrabands  came 
together,  answered  to  their  names,  and, 
each  taking  a  shovel,  a  spade,  or  a  pick, 
began  to  work  upon  the  breastworks  far- 
thest from  the  village  and  close  to  the 
new  cemetery.  The  afternoon  was  very 
warm,  the  warmest  we  had  in  Hampton. 
Some,  used  only  to  household  or  other 
light  work,  wilted  under  the  heat,  and 
they  were  told  to  go  into  the  cemetery  and 
lie  down.  I  remember  distinctly  a  corpu- 
lent colored  man,  down  whose  cheeks  the 
perspiration  rolled  and  who  said  he  felt 
badly.  He  also  was  told  to  go  away  and 
rest  until  he  was  better.  He  soon  came 
back  relieved,  and  there  was  no  more 
faithful  laborer  among  them  all  during 
the  rest  of  the  time.     Twice  or  three 


times  in  the  afternoon  an  intermission  of 
fifteen  minutes  was  allowed  to  all.  Thus 
they  worked  until  six  in  the  evening, 
when  they  were  dismissed  for  the  day. 
They  deposited  their  tools  in  the  court- 
house, where  each  one  of  his  own  accord 
carefully  put  his  pick  or  shovel  where  he 
could  find  it  again,  —  sometimes  behind  a 
door  and  sometimes  in  a  sly  corner  or  un- 
der a  seat,  preferring  to  keep  his  own  tool. 
They  were  then  informed  that  they  must 
come  together  on  the  ringing  of  the  bell 
the  next  morning  at  four  o'clock.  They 
thought  that  too  early,  but  they  were  as- 
sured that  the  system  best  for  their  health 
would  be  adopted,  and  they  would  after- 
wards be  consulted  about  changing  it. 
The  next  morning  we  did  not  rise  quite 
so  early  as  four,  and  the  bell  was  not 
rung  till  some  minutes  later.  The  con- 
trabands were  prompt,  their  names  had 
been  called,  and  they  had  marched  to 
the  trenches,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant, 
and  were  fairly  at  work  by  half-past  four 
or  a  quarter  before  five.  They  did  ex- 
cellent service  during  the  morning  hours, 
and  at  seven  were  dismissed  till  eight. 
The  roll  was  then  called  again,  absences, 
if  any,  noted,  and  by  half-past  eight  they 
were  at  their  post.  They  continued  at 
the  trenches  till  eleven,  being  allowed 
rests,  and  were  then  dismissed  until  three, 
p.  M.,  being  relieved  four  hours  in  the 
middle  of  the  day,  when,  the  bell  being 
rung  and  the  roll  called,  they  resumed 
their  work  and  continued  till  six,  when 
they  were  dismissed  for  the  day.  Such 
were  the  hours  and  usual  course  of  their 
labor.  Their  number  was  increased  some 
half  dozen  by  fugitives  from  the  back- 
country,  who  came  in  and  asked  to  be 
allowed  to  serve  on  the  intrenchments. 
The  contrabands  worked  well,  and  in 
no  instance  was  it  found  necessary  for 
the  superintendents  to  urge  them.  There 
was  a  public  opinion  among  them  against 
idleness,  which  answered  for  discipline. 
Some  days  they  worked  with  our  soldiers, 
and  it  was  found  that  they  did  more  work, 
and  did  the  nicer  parts  —  the  facings  and 
dressings  —  better.  Colonels  Packard 
and  Wardrop,  under  whose  direction  the 


1861.] 


The   Contrabands  at  Fortress  Monroe. 


635 


breastworks  were  constructed,  and  Gen- 
eral Butler,  who  visited  them,  expressed 
satisfaction  at  the  work  which  the  con- 
trabands had  done.  On  the  14th  of  July, 
Mr.  Russell,  of  the  London  "  Times,"  and 
Dr.  Bellows,  of  the  Sanitary  Commission, 
came  to  Hampton  and  manifested  much 
interest  at  the  success  of  the  experiment. 
The  result  was,  indeed,  pleasing.  A  sub- 
altern officer,  to  whom  I  had  insisted  that 
the  contrabands  should  be  treated  with 
kindness,  had  sneered  at  the  idea  of  ap- 
plying philanthropic  notions  in  time  of 
war.  It  was  found  then,  as  always,  that 
decent  persons  will  accomplish  more  when 
treated  at  least  like  human  beings.  The 
same  principle,  if  we  will  but  credit  our 
own  experience  and  Mr.  Rarey,  too,  may 
with  advantage  be  extended  to  our  rela- 
tions with  the  beasts  that  serve  us. 

Three  days  after  the  contrabands  com- 
menced their  work,  five  days'  rations 
were  served  to  them,  —  a  soldier's  ration 
for  each  laborer,  and  half  a  ration  for 
each  dependant.  The  allowance  was 
liberal,  —  as  a  soldier's  ration,  if  properly 
cooked,  is  more  than  he  generally  needs, 
and  the  dependant  for  whom  a  half- ra- 
tion was  received  might  be  a  wife  or  a 
half- grown  child.  It  consisted  of  salt 
beef  or  pork,  hard  bread,  beans,  rice, 
coffee,  sugar,  soap,  and  candles,  and 
where  the  family  was  large  it  made  a 
considerable  pile.  The  recipients  went 
home,  appearing  perfectly  satisfied,  and 
feeling  assured  that  our  promises  to  them 
would  be  performed.  On  Sunday  fresh 
meat  was  served  to  them  in  the  same 
manner  as  to  the  troops. 

There  was  one  striking  feature  in  the 
contrabands  which  must  not  be  omitted. 
I  did  not  hear  a  profane  or  vulgar  word 
spoken  by  them  during  my  superintend- 
ence, a  remark  which  it  will  be  difficult 
to  make  of  any  sixty-four  white  men  tak- 
en together  anywhere  in  our  army.  In- 
deed, the  greatest  discomfort  of  a  soldier, 
who  desires  to  remain  a  gentleman  in  the 
camp,  is  the  perpetual  reiteration  of  lan- 
guage which  no  decent  lips  would  utter 
in  a  sister's  presence.  But  the  negroes, 
so   dogmatically  pronounced    unfit    for 


freedom,  were  in  this  respect  models  for 
those  who  make  high  boasts  of  civility 
of  manners  and  Christian  culture.  Out 
of  the  sixty-four  who  worked  for  us,  all 
but  half  a  dozen  were  members  of  the 
Church,  generally  the  Baptist.  Although 
without  a  pastor,  they  held  religious  meet- 
ings on  the  Sundays  which  we  passed  in 
Hampton,  which  were  attended  by  about 
sixty  colored  persons  and  three  hundred 
soldiers.  The  devotions  were  decorously 
conducted,  bating  some  loud  shouting  by 
one  or  two  excitable  brethren,  which  the 
better  sense  of  the  rest  could  not  suppress. 
Their  prayers  and  exhortations  were  fer- 
vent, and  marked  by  a  simpHcity  which 
is  not  infrequently  the  richest  eloquence. 
The  soldiers  behaved  with  entire  propri- 
ety, and  two  exhorted  them  with  pious 
unction,  as  children  of  one  Father,  ran- 
somed by  the  same  Redeemer. 

To  this  general  propriety  of  conduct 
among  the  contrabands  intrusted  to  me 
there  was  only  one  exception,  and  that 
was  in  the  case  of  Joe ;  his  sur- 
name I  have  forgotten.  He  was  of  a  va- 
grant disposition,  and  an  inveterate  shirk. 
He  had  a  plausible  speech  and  a  distorted 
imagination,  and  might  be  called  a  dem- 
agogue among  darkies.  He  bore  an  ill 
physiognomy,  —  that  of  one  "  fit  for  trea- 
sons, stratagems,  and  spoils."  He  was  dis- 
liked by  the  other  contrabands,  and  had 
been  refused  admission  to  their  Church, 
which  he  wished  to  join  in  order  to  get 
up  a  character.  Last,  but  not  least,  among 
his  sins,  he  was  accustomed  to  beat  his 
wife,  of  which  she  accused  him  in  my  pres- 
ence ;  whereupon  he  justified  himself  on 
the  brazen  assumption  that  all  husbands 
did  the  same.  There  was  no  good  reason 
to  believe  that  he  had  already  been  tam- 
pered with  by  Rebels ;  but  his  price  could 
not  be  more  than  five  dollars.  He  would 
be  a  disturbing  element  among  the  labor- 
ers on  the  breastworks,  and  he  was  a  dan- 
gerous person  to  be  so  near  the  lines ;  we 
therefore  sent  him  to  the  fort.  The  last 
I  heard  of  him,  he  was  at  the  Rip  Raps, 
bemoaning  his  isolation,  and  the  butt  of 
our  soldiers  there,  who  charged  him  with 
being  a  "  Secesh,"  and  confounded  him 


636 


The   Contrabands  at  Fortress  Monroe, 


[November, 


by  gravely  asserting  that  they  were  such 
themselves  and  had  seen  him  with  the 
"  Secesh "  at  Yorktown.  This  was  the 
single  goat  among  the  sheep. 

On  Monday  evening,  July  15th,  when 
the  contrabands  deposited  their  tools  in 
the  court-house,  I  requested  them  to  stop 
a  moment  in  the  yard.  I  made  each  a 
present  of  some  tobacco,  which  all  the 
men  and  most  of  the  women  use.  As 
they  gathered  in  a  circle  around  me, 
head  peering  over  head,  I  spoke  to  them 
briefly,  thanking  them  for  their  cordial 
work  and  complimenting  their  behavior, 
remarking  that  I  had  heard  no  profane  or 
vulgar  word  from  them,  in  which  they  were 
an  example  to  us,  —  adding  that  it  was 
the  last  time  I  should  meet  them,  as  we 
were  to  march  homeward  in  the  morning, 
and  that  I  should  bear  to  my  people  a 
good  report  of  their  industry  and  morals. 
There  was  another  word  that  I  could  not 
leave  without  speaking.  Never  before  in 
our  history  had  a  Northern  man,  believ- 
ing in  the  divine  right  of  all  men  to  their 
liberty,  had  an  opportunity  to  address 
an  audience  of  sixty-four  slaves  and  say 
what  the  Spirit  moved  him  to  utter, — and 
I  should  have  been  false  to  all  that  is  true 
and  sacred,  if  I  had  let  it  pass.  I  said  to 
them  that  there  was  one  more  word  for 
me  to  add,  and  that  was,  that  every  one 
of  them  was  as  much  entitled  to  his  free- 
dom as  I  was  to  mine,  and  I  hoped  they 
would  all  now  secure  it.  "  Believe  you, 
boss,"  was  the  general  response,  and  each 
one  with  his  rough  gravelly  hand  grasped 
mine,  and  with  tearful  eyes  and  broken 
utterances  said,  "  God  bless  you ! "  "  May 
we  meet  in  Heaven  ! "  "  My  name  is 
Jack  Allen,  don't  forget  me  ! "  "  Remem- 
ber me,  Kent  Anderson  ! "  and  so  on. 
No,  —  I  may  forget  the  playfellows  of  my 
childhood,  my  college  classmates,  my  pro- 
fessional associates,  my  comrades  in  arms, 
but  I  will  remember  you  and  your  bene- 
dictions until  I  cease  to  breathe  !  Fare- 
well, honest  hearts,  longing  to  be  free ! 
and  may  the  kind  Providence  which  for- 
gets not  the  sparrow  shelter  and  protect 
you ! 

During  our  encampment  at  Hampton, 


I  occupied  much  of  my  leisure  time  in 
conversations  with  the  contrabands,  both 
at  their  work  and  in  their  shanties,  en- 
deavoring to  collect  their  currents  of 
thought  and  feeling.  It  remains  for  me 
to  give  the  results,  so  far  as  any  could  be 
arrived  at. 

There  were  more  negroes  of  unmixed 
African  blood  than  we  expected  to  find. 
But  many  were  entirely  bleached.  One 
man,  working  on  the  breastworks,  owned 
by  his  cousin,  whose  name  he  bore,  was 
no  darker  than  white  laborers  exposed 
by  their  occupation  to  the  sun,  and  could 
not  be  distinguished  as  of  negro  descent. 
Opposite  our  quarters  was  a  young  slave 
woman  who  had  been  three  times  a  moth- 
er without  ever  having  been  a  wife.  You 
could  not  discern  in  her  three  daugh- 
ters, either  in  color,  feature,  or  texture 
of  hair,  the  slightest  trace  of  African 
lineage.  They  were  as  light-faced  and 
fair-haired  as  the  Saxon  slaves  whom  the 
Roman  Pontiff,  Gregory  the  Great,  met 
in  the  markets  of  Rome.  If  they  were 
to  be  brought  here  and  their  pedigree 
concealed,  they  could  readily  mingle  with 
our  population  and  marry  white  men, 
who  would  never  suspect  that  they  were 
not  pure  Caucasians. 

From  the  best  knowledge  I  could  ob- 
tain, the  negroes  in  Hampton  had  rarely 
been  severely  whipped.  A  locust-tree 
in  front  of  the  jail  had  been  used  for  a 
whipping-post,  and  they  were  very  de- 
sirous that  it  should  be  cut  down.  It  was 
used,  however,  only  for  what  are  known 
there  as  flagrant  offences,  like  running 
away.  Their  masters,  when  in  ill-tem- 
per, had  used  rough  language  and  in- 
flicted chance  blows,  but  no  one  ever 
told  me  that  he  had  suffered  from  sys- 
tematic cruelty  or  been  severely  whip- 
ped, except  Joe,  whose  character  I  have 
given.  Many  of  them  bore  testimony  to 
the  great  kindness  of  their  masters  and 
mistresses. 

Separations  of  families  had  been  fre- 
quent. Of  this  I  obtained  definite  knowl- 
edge. When  I  was  registering  the  num- 
ber of  dependants,  preparatory  to  the 
requisition  for  rations,  the  answer  occa- 


1861.] 


The  Contrabands  at  Fortress  Monroe, 


637 


sionally  was,  "  Yes,  I  have  a  wife,  but 
she  is  not  here."  "  Where  is  she  ? " 
"  She  was  sold  off  two  years  ago,  and  I 
have  not  heard  of  her  since."  The  hus- 
band of  the  woman  who  took  care  of  the 
quarters  of  General  Pierce  had  been  sold 
away  from  her  some  years  before.  Such 
separations  are  regarded  as  death,  and 
the  slaves  re-marry.  In  some  cases  the 
bereft  one  —  so  an  intelligent  negro  as- 
sured me  —  pines  under  his  bereavement 
and  loses  his  value  ;  but  so  elastic  is  hu- 
man nature  that  this  did  not  appear  to 
be  generally  the  case.  The  same  answer 
was  given  about  children, — that  they  had 
been  sold  away.  This,  in  a  slave-breed- 
ing country,  is  done  when  they  are  about 
eight  years  old.  Can  that  be  a  mild 
system  of  servitude  which  permits  such 
enforced  separations  ?  Providence  may, 
indeed,  sunder  forever  those  dearest  to 
each  other,  and  the  stricken  soul  accepts 
the  blow  as  the  righteous  discipline  of  a 
Higher  Power;  but  when  the  bereave- 
ment is  the  arbitrary  dictate  of  human 
will,  there  are  no  such  consolations  to 
sanctify  grief  and  assuage  agony. 

There  is  a  universal  desire  among  the 
slaves  to  be  free.  Upon  this  point  my 
inquiries  were  particular,  and  always 
with  the  same  result.  When  we  said  to 
them,  "  You  don't  want  to  be  free, — your 
masters  say  you  don't," — they  manifested 
much  indignation,  answering,  "  We  do 
want  to  be  free, — we  want  to  be  for  our- 
selves." We  inquired  further,  "  Do  the 
house  slaves  who  wear  their  master's 
clothes  want  to  be  free  ?  "  "  We  never 
heard  of  one  who  did  not,"  was  the  in- 
stant reply.  There  might  be,  they  said, 
some  half-crazy  one  who  did  not  care  to 
be  free,  but  they  had  never  seen  one. 
Even  old  men  and  women,  with  crooked 
backs,  who  could  hardly  walk  or  see, 
shared  the  same  feeling.  An  intelligent 
Secessionist,  Lowry  by  name,  who  was 
examined  at  head-quarters,  admitted  that 
a  majority  of  the  slaves  wanted  to  be 
free.  The  more  intelligent  the  slave 
and  the  better  he  had  been  used,  the 
stronger  this  desire  seemed  to  be.  I  re- 
member one  such  particularly,  the  most 


intelligent  one  in  Hampton,  known  as  "  an 
influential  darky "  ("  darky  "  being  the 
familiar  term  applied  by  the  contrabands 
to  themselves).  He  could  read,  was  an 
exhorter  in  the  Church,  and  officiated  in 
the  absence  of  the  minister.  He  would 
have  made  a  competent  juryman.  His 
mistress,  he  said,  had  been  kind  to  him, 
and  had  never  spoken  so  harshly  to  him 
as  a  captain's  orderly  in  the  Naval  Brig- 
ade had  done,  who  assumed  one  day  to 
give  him  orders.  She  had  let  him  work 
where  he  pleased,  and  he  was  to  bring 
her  a  fixed  sum,  and  appropriate  the  sur- 
plus to  his  own  use.  She  pleaded  with 
him  to  go  away  with  her  from  Hampton 
at  the  time  of  the  exodus,  but  she  would 
not  force  him  to  leave  his  family.  Still 
he  hated  to  be  a  slave,  and  he  talked 
like  a  philosopher  about  his  rights.  No 
captive  in  the  galleys  of  Algiers,  not  La- 
fayette in  an  Austrian  dungeon,  ever  pin- 
ed more  for  free  air.  He  had  saved  eigh- 
teen hundred  dollars  of  his  surplus  earn- 
ings in  attending  on  visitors  at  Old  Point, 
and  had  spent  it  all  in  litigation  to  secure 
the  freedom  of  his  wife  and  children,  be- 
longing to  another  master,  whose  will  had 
emancipated  them,  but  was  contested  on 
the  ground  of  the  insanity  of  the  testator. 
He  had  won  a  verdict,  but  his  lawyers 
told  him  they  could  not  obtain  a  judg- 
ment upon  it,  as  the  judge  was  unfavor- 
able to  freedom. 

The  most  frequent  question  asked  of 
one  who  has  had  any  means  of  commu- 
nication with  the  contrabands  during  the 
war  is  in  relation  to  their  knowledge  of 
its  cause  and  purposes,  and  their  inter- 
est in  it.  One  thing  was  evident,  —  in- 
deed, you  could  not  talk  with  a  slave  who 
did  not  without  prompting  give  the  same 
testimony, — that  their  masters  had  been 
most  industrious  in  their  attempts  to  per- 
suade them  that  the  Yankees  were  com- 
ing down  there  only  to  get  the  land,  — 
that  they  would  kill  the  negroes  and 
manure  the  ground  with  them,  or  carry 
them  off  to  Cuba  or  Hayti  and  sell  them. 
An  intelligent  man  who  had  belonged  to 
Colonel  Joseph  Segar  —  almost  the  only 
Union  man  at  heart  in  that  region,  and 


638 


Tlie   Contrabands  at  Fortress  Monroe. 


[November, 


who  for  that  reason,  being  in  Washing- 
ton at  the  time  the  war  began,  had  iwt 
dared  to  return  to  Hampton  —  served  the 
staff  of  General  Pierce.  He  bore  the 
highest  testimony  to  the  kindness  of  his 
master,  who,  he  said,  told  him  to  remain, 
—  that  the  Yankees  were  the  friends  of 
his  people,  and  would  use  them  well. 
"But,"  said  David,  —  for  that  was  his 
name,  —  "I  never  heard  of  any  other 
master  who  talked  that  way,  but  they 
all  told  the  worst  stories  about  the  Yan- 
kees, and  the  mistresses  were  more  fu- 
rious even  than  the  masters."  David,  I 
may  add,  spite  of  his  good  master,  longed 
to  be  free. 

The  masters,  in  their  desperation,  had 
within  a  few  months  resorted  to  another 
device  to  secure  the  loyalty  of  their 
slaves.  The  colored  Baptist  minister 
had  been  something  of  a  pet  among  the 
whites,  and  had  obtained  subscriptions 
from  some  benevolent  citizens  to  secure 
the  freedom  of  a  handsome  daughter  of 
his  who  was  exposed  to  sale  on  an  auc- 
tion block,  where  her  beauty  inspired 
competition.  Some  leading  Secession- 
ists, Lawyer  Hope  for  one,  working  some- 
what upon  his  gratitude  and  somewhat 
upon  his  vanity,  persuaded  him  to  offer 
the  services  of  himself  and  his  sons,  in 
a  published  communication,  to  the  cause 
of  Virginia  and  the  Confederate  States. 
The  artifice  did  not  succeed.  He  lost 
his  hold  on  his  congregation,  and  could 
not  have  safely  remained  after  the  whites 
left.  He  felt  uneasy  about  his  betrayal, 
and  tried  to  restore  himself  to  favor  by 
saying  that  he  meant  no  harm  to  his 
people ;  but  his  protestations  were  in 
vain.  His  was  the  deserved  fate  of  those 
in  all  ages  who,  victims  of  folly  or  bribes, 
turn  their  backs  on  their  fellows. 

Notwithstanding  all  these  attempts, 
the  negroes,  with  rare  exceptions,  still 
believed  that  the  Yankees  were  their 
friends.  They  had  learned  something  in 
Presidential  elections,  and  they  thought 
their  masters  could  not  hate  us  as  they 
did,  unless  we  were  their  friends.  They 
believed  that  the  troubles  would  some- 
how or  other  help  them,  although  they 


did  not  understand  all  that  was  going 
on.  They  may  be  pardoned  for  their 
want  of  apprehension,  when  some  of  our 
public  men,  almost  venerable,  and  re- 
puted to  be  very  wise  and  philosophical, 
are  bewildered  and  grope  blindly.  They 
were  somewhat  perplexed  by  the  con- 
tradictory statements  of  our  soldiers, 
some  of  whom,  according  to  their  wish- 
es, said  the  contest  was  for  them,  and 
others  that  it  did  not  concern  them  at 
all  and  they  would  remain  as  before. 
If  it  was  explained  to  them,  that  Lincoln 
was  chosen  by  a  party  who  were  opposed 
to  extending  slavery,  but  who  were  also 
opposed  to  interfering  with  it  in  Vir- 
ginia, —  that  Virginia  and  the  South  had 
rebelled,  and  we  had  come  to  suppress 
the  rebellion, —  and  although  the  object 
of  the  war  was  not  to  emancipate  them, 
yet  that  might  be  its  result, — they  answer- 
ed, that  they  understood  the  statement 
perfectly.  They  did  not  seem  inclined 
to  fight,  although  willing  to  work.  More 
could  not  be  expected  of  them  while 
nothing  is  promised  to  them.  What  la- 
tent inspirations  they  may  have  remains 
to  be  seen.  They  had  at  first  a  mysteri- 
ous dread  of  fire-arms,  but  familiarity  is 
rapidly  removing  that. 

The  religious  element  of  their  life  has 
been  noticed.  They  said  they  had  pray- 
ed for  this  day,  and  God  had  sent  Lin- 
coln in  answer  to  their  prayers.  We 
used  to  overhear  their  family  devotions, 
somewhat  loud  according  to  their  man- 
ner, in  which  they  prayed  earnestly  for 
our  troops.  They  built  their  hopes  of 
freedom  on  Scriptural  examples,  regard- 
ing the  deliverance  of  Daniel  from  the 
lions'  den,  and  of  the  Three  Children  from 
the  furnace,  as  symbolic  of  their  coming 
freedom.  One  said  to  me,  that  masters, 
before  they  died,  by  their  wills  some- 
times freed  their  slaves,  and  he  thought 
that  a  type  that  they  should  become  free. 

One  Saturday  evening  one  of  them 
asked  me  to  call  and  see  him  at  his  home 
the  next  morning.  I  did  so,  and  he  hand- 
ed me  a  Bible  belonging  to  his  mistress, 
who  had  died  a  few  days  before,  and 
whose  bier  I  had  helped  to  carry  to  the 


1861.] 


TJie  Contrabands  at  Fortress  Monroe. 


639 


family  vault.  He  wanted  me  to  read  to 
him  the  eleventh  chapter  of  Daniel.  It 
seemed,  that,  as  one  of  the  means  of  keep- 
ing them  quiet,  the  white  clergymen  dur- 
ing the  winter  and  spring  had  read  them 
some  verses  from  it  to  show  that  the  South 
would  prevail,  enforcing  passages  which 
ascribed  great  dominion  to  "  the  king  of 
the  South,"  and  suppressing  those  which 
subsequently  give  the  supremacy  to  "  the 
king  of  the  North."  A  colored  man  who 
could  read  had  found  the  latter  passages 
and  made  them  known.  The  chapter 
is  dark  with  mystery,  and  my  auditor, 
quite  perplexed  as  I  read  on,  remarked, 
"  The  Bible  is  a  very  mysterious  book." 
I  read  to  him  also  the  thirty-fourth  chap- 
ter of  Jeremiah,  wherein  the  sad  proph- 
et of  Israel  records  the  denunciations  by 
Jehovah  of  sword,  pestilence,  and  famine 
against  the  Jews  for  not  proclaiming  lib- 
erty to  their  servants  and  handmaids.  He 
had  not  known  before  that  there  were 
such  passages  in  the  Bible. 

The  conversations  of  the  contrabands 
on  their  title  to  be  regarded  as  freemen 
showed  reflection.  When  asked  if  they 
thought  themselves  fit  for  freedom,  and  if 
the  darkies  were  not  lazy,  their  answer 
was,  "  Who  but  the  darkies  cleared  all 
the  land  round  here  ?  Yes,  there  are 
lazy  darkies,  but  there  are  more  lazy 
whites."  When  told  that  the  free  blacks 
had  not  succeeded,  they  answered  that 
the  free  blacks  have  not  had  a  fair  chance 
under  the  laws,  —  that  they  don't  dare  to 
enforce  their  claims  agaiTist  white  men, 
—  that  a  free  colored  blacksmith  had  a 
thousand  dollars  due  to  him  from  white 
men,  but  he  was  afraid  to  sue  for  any 
portion  of  it.  One  man,  when  asked 
why  he  ought  to  be  free,  replied,—"  I  feed 
and  clothe  myself  and  pay  my  master 
one  hundred  and  twenty  dollars  a  year ; 
and  the  one  hundred  and  twenty  dollars 
is  just  so  much  taken  from  me,  which 
ought  to  be  used  to  make  me  and  my 
children  comfortable."  Indeed,  broken 
as  was  their  speech  and  limited  as  was 
their  knowledge,  they  reasoned  abstract- 
ly on  their  rights  as  well  as  white  men. 
Locke  or  Channing  might  have  fortified 


the  argument  for  universal  liberty  from 
their  simple  talk.  So  true  is  it  that  the 
best  thoughts  which  the  human  intellect 
has  produced  have  come,  not  from  afflu- 
ent learning  or  ornate  speech,  but  from 
the  original  elements  of  our  nature,  com- 
mon to  all  races  of  men  and  all  condi- 
tions in  life  ;  and  genius  the  highest  and 
most  cultured  may  bend  with  profit  to 
catch  the  lowliest  of  human  utterances. 

There  was  a  very  general  desire  among 
the  contrabands  to  know  how  to  read. 
A  few  had  learned ;  and  these,  in  every 
instance  where  we  inquired  as  to  their 
teacher,  had  been  taught  on  the  sly  in 
their  childhood  by  their  white  playmates. 
Others  knew  their  letters,  but  could  not 
"put  them  together,"  as  they  said.  I 
remember  of  a  summer's  afternoon  seeing 
a  young  married  woman,  perhaps  twenty- 
five  years  old,  seated  on  a  door-step  with 
her  primer  before  her,  trying  to  make 
progress. 

In  natural  tact  and  the  faculty  of 
getting  a  livelihood  the  contrabands  are 
inferior  to  the  Yankees,  but  quite  equal 
to  the  mass  of  the  Southern  popula- 
tion. It  is  not  easy  to  see  why  they 
would  be  less  industrious,  if  free,  than 
the  whites,  particularly  as  they  would 
have  the  encouragement  of  wages.  There 
would  be  transient  difficulties  at  the  out- 
set, but  no  more  than  a  bad  system  lasting 
for  ages  might  be  expected  to  leave  be- 
hind. The  fii-st  generation  might  be  un- 
fitted for  the  active  duties  and  responsi- 
bilities of  citizenship ;  but  this  difficulty, 
under  generous  provisions  for  education, 
would  not  pass  to  the  next.  Even  now 
they  are  not  so  much  behind  the  masses 
of  the  whites.  Of  the  Virginians  Avho 
took  the  oath  of  allegiance  at  Hampton, 
not  more  than  one  in  fifteen  could  write 
his  name,  and  the  rolls  captured  at  Hat- 
teras  disclose  an  equally  deplorable  igno- 
rance. The  contrabands  might  be  less 
addicted  than  the  now  dominant  race  to 
bowie-knives  and  duels,  think  less  of  the 
value  of  bludgeons  as  forensic  arguments, 
be  less  inhospitable  to  innocent  sojourn- 
ers from  Free  States,  and  have  far  in- 
ferior skill  in  robbing  forts  and  arsen- 


640 


Tlie   Contrabands  at  Fortress  Monroe. 


[November. 


als,  plundering  the  Treasury,  and  betray- 
ing the  country  at  whose  crib  they  had 
fattened ;  but  mankind  would  forgive 
them  for  not  acquiring  these  accomplish- 
ments of  modern  treason.  As  a  race, 
they  may  be  less  vigorous  and  thrifty 
than  the  Saxon,  but  they  are  more  so- 
cial, docile,  and  affectionate,  fulfilling  the 
theory  which  Channing  held  in  relation 
to  them,  if  advanced  to  freedom  and  civ- 
ilization. 

If  in  the  progress  of  the  war  they 
should  be  called  to  bear  arms,  there 
need  be  no  reasonable  apprehension  that 
they  would  exhibit  the  ferocity  of  sav- 
age races.  Unlike  such,  they  have  been 
subordinated  to  civilized  life.  They  are 
by  nature  a  religious  people.  They  have 
received  an  education  in  the  Christian 
faith  from  devout  teachers  of  their  own 
and  of  the  dominant  race.  Some  have 
been  taught  (let  us  believe  it)  by  the 
precepts  of  Christian  masters,  and  some 
by  the  children  of  those  masters,  repeat- 
ing the  lessons  of  the  Sabbath -schooL 
The  slaveholders  assure  us  that  they 
have  all  been  well  treated.  If  that  be 
so,  they  have  no  wrongs  to  avenge.  As- 
sociated with  our  army,  they  would  con- 
form to  the  stronger  and  more  disciplin- 
ed race.  Nor  is  this  view  disproved  by 
servile  insurrections.  In  those  cases,  the 
insurgents,  without  arms,  without  allies, 
without  discipline,  but  throwing  them- 
selves against  society,  against  govern- 
ment, against  everything,  saw  no  other 
escape  than  to  devastate  and  destroy  with- 
out mercy  in  order  to  get  a  foothold.  If 
they  exterminated,  it  was  because  exter- 
mination was  threatened  against  them. 


In  the  Revolution,  in  the  army  at  Cam- 
bridge, from  the  beginning  to  the  close  of 
the  war,  against  the  protests  of  South  Car- 
olina by  the  voice  of  Edward  Rutledge, 
but  with  the  express  sanction  of  Washing- 
ton,—  ever  just,  ever  grateful  for  patriot- 
ism, whencesoever  it  came, — the  negroes 
fought  in  the  ranks  with  the  white  men, 
and  they  never  dishonored  the  patriot 
cause.  So  also  at  the  defence  of  New  Or- 
leans they  received  from  General  Jackson 
a  noble  tribute  to  their  fidelity  and  soldier- 
like bearing.  Weighing  the  question  his- 
torically and  reflectively,  and  anticipating 
the  capture  of  Richmond  and  New  Or- 
leans, there  need  be  more  serious  appre- 
hension of  the  conduct  of  some  of  our 
own  troops  recruited  in  large  cities  than 
of  a  regiment  of  contrabands  oflicered 
and  disciplined  by  white  men. 

But  as  events  travel  faster  than  laws 
or  proclamations,  already  in  this  war  with 
Rebellion  the  two  races  have  served  to- 
gether. The  same  breastworks  have  been 
built  by  their  common  toil.  True  and 
valiant,  they  stood  side  by  side  in  the 
din  of  cannonade,  and  they  shared  as 
comrades  in  the  victory  of  Hatteras.  His- 
tory will  not  fail  to  record  that  on  the 
28th  day  of  August,  1861,  when  the  Reb- 
el forts  were  bombarded  by  the  Federal 
army  and  navy,  under  the  command  of 
Major- General  Butler  and  Commodore 
Stringham,  fourteen  negroes,  lately  Vir- 
ginia slaves,  now  contraband  of  war, 
faithfully  and  without  panic  worked  the 
after-gun  of  the  upper  deck  of  the  Min- 
nesota, and  hailed  with  a  victor's  pride 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  as  they  again  wav- 
ed on  the  soil  of  the  Carolinas. 


1861.]  The   Washers  of  the  Shroud,  641 


THE  WASHEES  OF  THE  SHROUD. 

Along  a  river-side,  I  know  not  where, 
I  walked  last  night  in  mystery  of  dream  ; 
A  chill  creeps  curdling  yet  beneath  my  hair, 
To  think  what  chanced  me  by  the  pallid  gleam 
Of  a  moon-wraith  that  waned  through  haunted  air. 

Pale  fire-flies  pulsed  within  the  meadow  mist 
Their  halos,  wavering  thistle-downs  of  light ; 
The  loon,  that  seemed  to  mock  some  goblin  tryst, 
Laughed ;  and  the  echoes,  huddling  in  affright, 
Like  Odin's  hounds,  fled  baying  down  the  night. 

Then  all  was  silent,  till  there  smote  my  ear 

A  movement  in  the  stream  that  checked  my  breath : 

Was  it  the  slow  plash  of  a  wading  deer  ? 

But  something  said,  "  This  water  is  of  Death ! 

The  Sisters  wash  a  Shroud,  —  ill  thing  to  hear !  '* 

I,  looking  then,  beheld  the  ancient  Three, 

Known  to  the  Greek's  and  to  the  Norseman's  creed. 

That  sit  in  shadow  of  the  mystic  Tree, 

Still  crooning,  as  they  weave  their  endless  brede. 

One  song :  "  Time  was,  Time  is,  and  Time  shall  be." 

No  wrinkled  crones  were  they,  as  I  had  deemed, 
But  fair  as  yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow, 
To  mourner,  lover,  poet,  ever  seemed ; 
Something  too  deep  for  joy,  too  high  for  sorrow. 
Thrilled  in  their  tones  and  from  their  faces  gleamed. 

"  Still  men  and  nations  reap  as  they  have  strawn,"  — 

So  sang  they,  working  at  their  task  the  while,  — 

"  The  fatal  raiment  must  be  cleansed  ere  dawn : 

For  Austria  ?  Italy  ?  the  Sea-Queen's  Isle  ? 

O'er  what  quenched  grandeur  must  our  shroud  be  drawn  ? 

"  Or  is  it  for  a  younger,  fairer  corse. 
That  gathered  States  for  children  round  his  knees. 
That  tamed  the  wave  to  be  his  posting-horse. 
The  forest-feller,  linker  of  the  seas. 
Bridge-builder,  hammerer,  youngest  son  of  Thor's  ? 

"  What  make  we,  murmur'st  thou,  and  what  are  we  ? 
When  empires  must  be  wound,  we  bring  the  shroud, 
The  time-old  web  of  the  implacable  Three  : 
Is  it  too  coarse  for  him,  the  young  and  proud  ? 
Earth's  mightiest  deigned  to  wear  it ;  why  not  he  ?  '* 

VOL.   VIIL  41 


642  The   Washers  of  the  Shroud.  [November, 

"  Is  there  no  hope  ?  "  I  moaned.     "  So  strong,  so  fair  ! 

Our  Fowler,  whose  proud  bird  would  brook  erewhile 

No  rival's  swoop  in  all  our  western  air  ! 

Gather  the  ravens,  then,  in  funeral  file, 

For  him,  life's  morn-gold  bright  yet  in  his  hair  ? 

"  Leave  me  not  hopeless,  ye  unpitying  dames  ! 
I  see,  half-seeing.     Tell  me,  ye  who  scanned 
The  stars,  Earth's  elders,  still  must  noblest  aims 
Be  traced  upon  oblivious  ocean-sands  ? 
Must  Hesper  join  the  waiUng  ghosts  of  names  ?  " 

"  When  grass-blades  stiffen  with  red  battle-dew, 
Ye  deem  we  choose  the  victors  and  the  slain  : 
Say,  choose  we  them  that  shall  be  leal  and  true 
To  the  heart's  longing,  the  high  faith  of  brain  ? 
Yet  here  the  victory  is,  if  ye  but  knew. 

"  Three  roots  bear  up  Dominion :  Knowledge,  Will,  — 
These  two  are  strong,  but  stronger  yet  the  third,  — 
Obedience,  the  great  tap-root,  that  still. 
Knit  round  the  rock  of  Duty,  is  not  stirred, 
Though  the  storm's  ploughshare  spend  its  utmost  skill. 

"  Is  the  doom  sealed  for  Hesper  ?    'T  is  not  we 
Denounce  it,  but  the  Law  before  all  time  : 
The  brave  makes  danger  opportunity ; 
The  waverer,  paltering  with  the  chance  sublime. 
Dwarfs  it  to  peril :  which  shall  Hesper  be  ? 

"  Hath  he  let  vultures  climb  his  eagle's  seat 
To  make  Jove's  bolts  purveyors  of  their  maw  ? 
Hath  he  the  Many's  plaudits  found  more  sweet 
Than  wisdom  ?  held  Opinion's  wind  for  law  ? 
Then  let  him  hearken  for  the  headsman's  feet  I 

"  Rough  are  the  steps,  slow-hewn  in  flintiest  rock, 
States  climb  to  power  by  ;  slippery  those  with  gold 
Down  which  they  stumble  to  eternal  mock  : 
No  chafferer's  hand  shall  long  the  sceptre  hold. 
Who,  given  a  Fate  to  shape,  would  sell  the  block. 

"  We  sing  old  sagas,  songs  of  weal  and  woe, 
Mystic  because  too  cheaply  understood  ; 
Dark  sayings  are  not  ours  ;  men  hear  and  know, 
See  Evil  weak,  see  only  strong  the  Good, 
Yet  hope  to  balk  Doom's  fire  with  walls  of  tow. 

"  Time  Was  unlocks  the  riddle  of  Time  Is, 
That  offers  choice  of  glory  and  of  gloom  ; 
The  solver  makes  Time  Shall  Be  surely  his.  — 


1861.]  Reviews  and  Literary  Notices,  643 

But  hasten,  Sisters  !  for  even  now  the  tomb 
Grates  its  slow  hinge  and  calls  from  the  abyss." 

"  But  not  for  him,"  I  cried,  "  not  yet  for  him, 
Whose  large  horizon,  westering,  star  by  star 
Wins  from  the  void  to  where  on  ocean's  rim 
The  sunset  shuts  the  world  with  golden  bar,  — 
Not  yet  his  thews  shall  fail,  his  eye  grow  dim  ! 

"  His  shall  be  larger  manhood,  saved  for  those 
That  walk  un  blenching  through  the  trial-fires  ; 
Not  suffering,  but  faint  heart  is  worst  of  woes, 
And  he  no  base-born  son  of  craven  sires. 
Whose  eye  need  droop,  confronted  with  his  foes. 

"  Tears  may  be  ours,  but  proud,  for  those  who  win 
Death's  royal  purple  in  the  enemy's  lines  : 
Peace,  too,  brings  tears ;  and  'mid  the  battle-din, 
The  wiser  ear  some  text  of  God  divines ; 
For  the  sheathed  blade  may  rust  with  darker  sin. 

"  God,  give  us  peace  ! —  not  such  as  lulls  to  sleep. 

But  sword  on  thigh,  and  brow  with  purpose  knit ! 

And  let  our  Ship  of  State  to  harbor  sweep, 

Her  ports  all  up,  her  battle-lanterns  lit. 

And  her  leashed  thunders  gathering  for  their  leap  !  '* 

So  said  I,  with  clenched  hands  and  passionate  pain, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  by  Potomac's  side  : 
Again  the  loon  laughed,  mocking ;  and  again 
The  echoes  bayed  far  down  the  night,  and  died, 
While  waking  I  recalled  my  wandering  brain. 


REVIEWS   AND  LITERARY  NOTICES. 

Sermons  preached  in  the  Chapel  of  Harvard  ities  of  his  mental  and  moral  organiza- 

College.      By  James  Walker,   D.  D.  tion,  it  will  be  found  that  the  style  and 

Boston :  Ticknor  &  Fields.    12mo.  structure  of  these  printed  sermons  suggest 

the  mode  of  their  delivery,  which  is  sim- 

The  great  reputation  which  Dr.  Walker  ply  the  emphatic  utterance  of  emphatic 

has  long  enjoyed,  as  one  of  the  most  im-  thought.  The  Italicized  words,  with  which 

pressive  pulpit  orators  of  the  country,  will  the  volume  abounds,  palpably  mark  the 

suffer  little  diminution  by  the  publication  results  of  thinking,  and  arrest  attention 

of  these  specimens  of  his  rare  powers  of  because  they  are  not  less  emphasized  by 

statement,  argument,  and  illustration.   To  the  intellect  than  by  the  type.     In  reflect- 

the  general  reader,  they  are,  to  be  sure,  ing  Dr.  Walker's  mind,  the  work  at  the 

deprived  of  the  fascination  of  his  voice  and  same  time  reflects  his  manner, 

manner ;  but  as  the  peculiarities  of  his  elo-  Every  reader  of  these  sermons  will  bo 

cution  have  their  source  in  the  pecuhar-  struck  by  their  thorough  reasonableness,— 


644 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[November, 


a  reasonableness  which  does  not  exclude, 
but  includes,  the  deepest  and  warmest  re- 
ligious sensibility.  Moral  and  religious 
feeling  pervades  every  statement ;  but  the 
feeling  is  still  confined  within  a  flexible 
framework  of  argument,  which,  while  it 
enlarges  with  every  access  of  emotion,  is 
always  an  outlying  boundary  of  thought, 
beyond  which  passion  does  not  pass.  Light 
continually  asserts  itself  as  more  compre- 
hensive in  its  reach  than  heat ;  and  the  no- 
blest spiritual  instincts  and  impulses  are 
never  allowed  unchecked  expression  as 
sentiments,  but  have  to  submit  to  the  re- 
straints imposed  by  principles.  Even  in 
the  remarkable  sermon  entitled,  "  The 
Heart  more  than  the  Head,"  it  will  be 
found  that  it  is  the  head  which  legitimates 
the  action  of  the  heart.  The  sentiments 
are  exalted  above  the  intellect  by  a  pro- 
cess purely  intellectual,  and  the  inferiority 
of  the  reason  is  shown  to  be  a  principle 
essentially  reasonable.  Thus,  throughout 
the  volume,  the  author's  mental  insight 
into  the  complex  phenomena  of  our  spir- 
itual nature  is  always  accompanied  by  a 
mental  oversight  of  its  actual  and  possi- 
ble aberrations.  A  sound,  large,  "  round- 
about" common  sense,  keen,  eager,  vigi- 
lant, sagacious,  encompasses  all  the  emo- 
tional elements  of  his  thought.  He  has  a 
subtile  sense  of  mystery,  but  he  is  not  a 
mystic.  The  most  marvellous  workings 
of  the  Divine  Spirit  he  apprehends  under 
the  conditions  of  Law,  and  even  in  the 
raptures  of  devotion  he  never  forgets  the 
relation  of  cause  and  effect. 

The  style  of  these  sermons  is  what 
might  be  expected  from  the  character  of 
the  mind  it  expresses.  If  Dr.  Walker 
were  not  a  thinker,  it  is  plain  that  he  could 
never  have  been  a  rhetorician.  He  has  no 
power  at  all  as  a  writer,  if  writing  be  con- 
sidered an  accomplishment  which  can  be 
separated  from  earnest  thinking.  Words 
are,  with  him,  the  mere  instruments  for 
the  expression  of  things ;  and  he  hits  on 
felicitous  words  only  under  that  impatient 
stress  of  thought  which  demands  exact  ex- 
pression for  definite  ideas.  All  his  words, 
simple  as  they  are,  are  therefore  fairly 
earned,  and  he  gives  to  them  a  force  and 
significance  which  they  do  not  bear  in  the 
dictionary.  The  mind  of  the  writer  is  felt 
beating  and  burning  beneath  his  phraseolo- 
gy, stamping  every  word  with  the  image 
of  a  thought.    Largeness  of  intellect,  acute 


discrimination,  clear  and  explicit  state- 
ment, masterly  arrangement  of  matter, 
an  unmistakable  performance  of  the  real 
business  of  expression,  —  these  qualities 
make  every  reader  of  the  sermons  con- 
scious that  a  mind  of  great  vigor,  breadth, 
and  pungency  is  brought  into  direct  con- 
tact with  his  own.  The  almost  ostenta- 
tious absence  of  "  fine  writing  "  only  in- 
creases the  effect  of  the  plain  and  sinewy 
words. 

If  we  pass  from  the  form  to  the  sub- 
stance of  Dr.  Walker's  teachings,  we  shall 
find  that  his  sermons  are  especially  char- 
acterized by  practical  wisdom.  A  scholar, 
a  moralist,  a  metaphysician,  a  theologian, 
learned  in  all  the  lore  and  trained  in  the 
best  methods  of  the  schools,  he  is  distin- 
guished from  most  scholars  by  his  broad 
grasp  of  every-day  life.  It  is  this  quality 
which  has  given  him  his  wide  influence  as 
a  preacher,  and  this  is  a  prominent  charm 
of  his  printed  sermons.  He  brings  prin- 
ciples to  the  test  of  facts,  and  connects 
thoughts  with  things.  The  conscience 
which  can  easily  elude  the  threats,  the 
monitions,  and  the  appeals  of  ordinary 
sermonizers,  finds  itself  mastered  by  his 
mingled  fervor,  logic,  and  practical  knowl- 
edge. Every  sermon  in  the  present  vol- 
ume is  good  for  use,  and  furnishes  both 
inducements  and  aids  to  the  formation 
of  manly  Christian  character.  There  is 
much,  of  course,  to  lift  the  depressed  and 
inspire  the  weak ;  but  the  great  peculiar- 
ity of  the  discourses  is  the  resolute  en- 
ergy with  which  they  grapple  with  the 
worldliness  and  sin  of  the  proud  and  the 
strong. 


The  Monks  of  the  West,  from  St.  Benedict  to 
St.  Bernard.  By  the  Count  de  Mont- 
ALEMBERT,  Member  of  the  French 
Academy.  Authorized  Translation. 
Volumes  I.  and  II.  Edinburgh  and 
London  :  W.  Blackwood  &  Sons.  1861. 
8vo.    pp.  xii.  and  515,  549. 

These  volumes  form  the  first  instal- 
ment of  a  work  in  which  one  of  the  great 
lights  of  the  Romish  Church  in  our  day 
proposes  to  recount  the  glories  of  West- 
ern Monasticism,  and  to  narrate  the  lives 
of  some  of  the  remarkable  men  who  suc- 
cessively passed  from  the  cloister  to  the 
Papal  throne,  or  in  positions  scarcely  less 


1861.] 


Reviews  and  Liter 


ary 


Notices. 


645 


conspicuous  permanently  aflTected  the  his- 
tory of  the  Church.  His  original  design, 
however,  does  not  appear  to  have  extend- 
ed beyond  writing  the  life  of  St.  Bernard 
of  Clairvaux,  which  he  intended  to  make 
in  some  measure  a  complement  to  his  life 
of  St.  Elizabeth  of  Hungary.  But  he  judg- 
ed rightly,  that,  in  order  to  exhibit  the 
character  and  influence  of  that  remarkable 
man  under  all  their  various  aspects,  it  was 
needful  at  the  outset  to  retrace  the  ear- 
ly historj'-  of  monastic  institutions  in  the 
West,  and  to  show  how  fai>  they  tended  to 
prepare  the  way  for  such  a  man.  Only  a 
part  of  this  preliminary  task  has  been  ac- 
complished as  yet ;  but  enough  has  been 
done  to  show  in  what  spirit  the  historian 
has  approached  his  subject,  how  thorough- 
ly he  has  explored  the  original  sources  of 
information,  and  what  will  probably  be  the 
real  worth  of  his  labors.  For  such  a  work 
Montalembert  possesses  adequate  and  in 
some  respects  peculiar  qualifications.  His 
learning,  eloquence,  and  candor  will  be 
conceded  by  every  one  who  is  familiar 
with  his  previous  writings  or  with  his  pub- 
lic life  ;  and  at  the  same  time  he  unites  a 
passionate  love  of  liberty,  everywhere  ap- 
parent in  his  book,  with  a  zeal  for  the 
Church,  worthy  of  any  of  the  monks  whom 
he  commemorates.  While  his  narrative 
is  always  animated  and  picturesque,  and 
often  rises  into  passages  of  fervid  eloquence, 
he  has  conducted  his  researches  with  the 
unwearied  perseverance  of  a  mere  antiqua- 
ry, and  has  exhausted  every  source  of  in- 
formation. "Every  word  which  I  have 
written,"  he  says,  "  has  been  drawn  from 
original  and  contemporary  sources ;  and  if 
I  have  quoted  facts  or  expressions  from 
second-hand  authors,  it  has  never  been 
without  attentively  verifying  the  original 
or  completing  the  text.  A  single  date, 
quotation,  or  note,  apparently  insignifi- 
cant, has  often  cost  me  hours  and  some- 
times days  of  labor.  I  have  never  con- 
tented myself  with  being  approximatively 
right,  nor  resigned  myself  to  doubt  until 
ev^ry  chance  of  arriving  at  certainty  was 
exhausted."  To  the  spirit  and  temper  in 
which  the  book  is  written  no  well-founded 
exception  can  be  taken  ;  but  considerable 
abatement  must  be  made  from  the  author's 
estimate  of  the  services  rendered  by  the 
monks  to  Christian  civilization,  and  no 
Protestant  will  accept  his  views  as  to  the 
permanent  worth  of  monastic  institutions. 


With  this  qualification,  and  with  some  al- 
lowance for  needless  repetitions,  we  can- 
not but  regard  his  work  as  a  most  attrac- 
tive and  eloquent  contribution  to  ecclesi- 
astical history. 

About  half  of  the  first  volume  is  devoted 
to  a  General  Introduction,  explanatory  of 
the  origin  and  design  of  the  work,  but 
mainly  intended  to  paint  the  character  of 
monastic  institutions,  to  describe  the  hap- 
piness of  a  religious  life,  and  to  examine 
the  charges  brought  against  the  monks. 
These  topics  are  considered  in  ten  chap- 
ters, filled  with  curious  details,  and  written 
with  an  eloquence  and  an  earnestness  which 
it  is  difficult  for  the  reader  to  resist.  Fol- 
lowing this  we  have  a  short  and  brilliant 
sketch  of  the  social  and  political  condition 
of  the  Roman  Empire  after  the  conversion 
of  Constantino,  exhibiting  by  a  few  mas- 
terly touches  its  wide -spread  corruption, 
the  feebleness  of  its  rulers,  and  the  utter 
degradation  of  the  people.  The  next  two 
books  treat  of  the  Monastic  Precursors  in 
the  East  as  well  as  in  the  West,  and  pre- 
sent a  series  of  brief  biographical  sketches 
of  the  most  famous  monks,  from  St.  An- 
thony, the  father  of  Eastern  monasticism, 
to  St.  Benedict,  the  earliest  legislator  for 
the  monasteries  of  the  West.  Among  the 
illustrious  men  who  pass  before  us  in  this 
review,  and  all  of  whom  are  skilfully 
delineated,  are  Basil  of  Caesarea  and  his 
friend  Gregory  Nazianzen,  Chrysostom, 
Jerome,  Augustine,  Athanasius,  Martin  of 
Tours,  and  the  numerous  company  of  saints 
and  doctors  nurtured  in  the  great  monas- 
tery of  Lerins.  And  though  an  account 
of  the  saintly  women  who  have  led  lives 
of  seclusion  would  scarcely  seem  to  be  in- 
cluded under  the  title  of  Montalembert's 
work,  he  does  not  neglect  to  add  sketches 
of  the  most  conspicuous  of  them,  —  Eu- 
phrosyne,  Pelagia,  Marcella,  Furia,  and 
others.  These  preliminary  sketches  fill 
the  last  half  of  the  first  volume. 

The  Fourth  Book  comprises  an  account 
of  the  Life  and  Rule  of  St.  Benedict,  and 
properly  opens  the  history  which  Monta- 
lembert proposes  to  narrate.  It  presents  a 
sufficiently  minute  sketch  of  the  personal* 
history  of  Benedict  and  his  immediate  fol- 
lowers; but  its  chief  merit  is  in  its  very- 
ample  and  satisfactory  exposition  of  the- 
Benedictine  Rule.  The  next  book  traces- 
the  history  of  monastic  institutions  in  Ita- 
ly and  Spain  during  the  sixth  and  sevenths 


646 


Reviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


[November, 


centuries,  and  includes  biographical  notices 
of  Cassiodorus,  the  founder  of  the  once  fa- 
mous monastery  of  Viviers  in  Calabria,  of 
St.  Gregory  the  Great,  of  Leander,  Bish- 
op of  Seville,  and  his  brother  Isidore,  of  II- 
defonso  of  Toledo,  and  of  many  others  of 
scarcely  less  renown  in  the  early  monastic 
records.  The  Sixth  Book  is  devoted  to  the 
monks  under  the  first  Merovingians,  and 
is  divided  into  five  sections,  treating  re- 
spectively of  the  conquest  of  Gaul  by  the 
Franks,  of  the  arrival  of  St.  Maur  in  An- 
jou  and  the  propagation  of  the  Benedictine 
rule  there,  of  the  relations  previously  ex- 
isting between  the  monks  and  the  Mero- 
vingians, of  St.  Radegund  and  her  follow- 
ers, and  of  the  services  of  the  monks  in 
clearing  the  forests  and  opening  the  way 
for  the  advance  of  civilization.  The  Sev- 
enth Book  records  the  hfe  of  St.  Colum- 
banus,  and  describes  at  much  length  his 
labors  in  Gaul,  as  well  as  those  of  his  dis- 
ciples, both  in  the  great  monastery  of  Lux- 
euil  and  in  the  numerous  colonies  which 
issued  from  it  and  spread  over  the  whole 
neighborhood,  bringing  the  narrative  down 
to  the  close  of  the  seventh  century.  At 
this  point  the  portion  of  Montalembert's 
work  now  published  terminates,  leaving, 
we  presume,  several  additional  volumes  to 
follow.  For  their  appearance  we  shall  look 
with  much  interest.  If  the  remainder  is 
executed  in  the  same  spirit  as  the  portion 
now  before  us,  and  is  marked  by  the  same 
diligent  study  of  the  original  authorities 
and  the  same  persuasive  eloquence,  it  will 
form  one  of  the  most  valuable  of  the  many 
attractive  monographs  which  we  owe  to 
the  French  historians  of  our  time,  and  will 
be  read  with  equal  interest  by  Catholics 
and  Protestants. 


Eighty  Years'  Progress  of  the  United  States, 
showing  the  Various  Channels  of  Industry 
and  Education  through  which  the  People 
of  the  United  States  have  arisen  from  a 
British  Colony  to  their  Present  National 
ImpoHance.  Illustrated  with  over  Two 
Hundred  Engravings.  New  York :  51 
John  Street.  Worcester:  L.  Stebbins. 
Two  Volumes.    8vo. 

A  VAST  amount  of  useful  information  is 
treasured  up  in  these  two  national  volumes. 
Agriculture,  commerce  and  trade,  the  cul- 
tivation of  cotton,  education,  the  arts  of  de- 


sign, banking,  mining,  steam,  the  fur-trade, 
etc.,  are  subjects  of  interest  everywhere, 
and  the  present  writers  seem  to  be  special- 
ly competent  for  the  task  they  have  as- 
siuned.  If  the  household  library  should 
possess  such  books  more  frequently,  less 
ignorance  would  prevail  on  topics  concern- 
ing which  every  American  ought  to  be  well- 
informed.  Woful  silence  usually  prevails 
when  a  foreigner  asks  for  statistics  on  any 
point  connected  with  our  industrial  prog- 
ress, and  very  few  take  the  trouble  to  get 
at  facts  which  are  easy  enough  to  be  had 
with  a  little  painstaking.  We  are  glad  to 
see  so  much  good  material  brouglit  togeth- 
er as  we  find  in  these  two  well-filled  vol- 
umes. 


Electro-Physiology  and  Electro-Therapeutics : 
Showing  the  Rules  and  Methods  for  the  Em- 
ployment of  Galvanism  in  Nervous  Diseas- 
es, etc.  Second  Edition,  with  Additions. 
Boston :  Ticknor  &  Fields.     1861. 

At  a  time  when  the  partition-wall  be- 
tween Jew  and  Gentile  of  the  medical 
world  is  pretty  thoroughly  breached,  if 
not  thrown  down,  and  quackery  and  im- 
posture are  tolerated  as  necessary  evils,  it 
is  agreeable  to  meet  with  a  real  work  of 
science,  emanating  from  the  labors  of  a 
regular  physician,  concerning  the  influ- 
ences exerted  by  electricity  on  the  human 
body,  both  in  health  and  disease. 

Electricity  is  one  of  the  great  powers  of 
Nature,  pervading  all  matter,  existing  in 
all  mineral,  vegetable,  and  animal  bodies, 
not  only  acting  in  the  combinations  of  the 
elements  and  molecules,  but  also  serving 
as  a  means  for  their  separation  from  each 
other.  This  imponderable  fluid  or  power, 
whatever  it  may  be,  whether  one  or  two, 
or  a  polarization  of  one  force  into  the  states 
-f  and  — ,  is  one  of  the  most  active  agen- 
cies known  to  man,  and  although  not  ca- 
pable of  being  weighed  in  the  balance,  is 
not  found  wanting  anywhere  in  Nature.  It 
courses  in  great  currents  beneath  our  feet, 
in  the  solid  rocks  of  the  earth,  penetrat- 
ing to  the  very  interior  of  the  globe,  while 
it  also  rushes  through  our  atmosphere  in 
lurid  flashes,  and  startles  us  with  the  crash 
and  roar  of  heaven's  artillery.  It  gives 
magnetic  polarity  to  the  earth,  and  directs 
the  needle  by  its  influence ;  for  magnetic 
attraction  is  only  an  effect  of  the  earth's 


1861.] 


Heviews  and  Literary  Notices. 


647 


thermo-electricity,  excited  by  the  sun's 
rays  acting  in  a  continuous  course.  Both 
animal  and  vegetable  life  are  dependent 
on  electric  forces  for  their  development ; 
and  many  of  their  functions,  directly  or 
indirectly,  result  from  their  agency. 

If  this  force  controls  to  a  great  de- 
gree the  living  functions  of  our  organs  in 
their  healthy  action,  it  must  be  that  it  is 
concerned  in  those  derangements  and  le- 
sions which  constitute  disease  and  abnor- 
mal actions  or  disorders.  It  must  have 
a  remedial  and  the  opposite  effect,  accord- 
ing as  it  is  appHed. 

Is  such  a  gigantic  power  to  be  left  in 
the  hands  of  charlatans,  or  shall  it  be  re- 
served for  application  by  scientific  physi- 
cians ?  This  is  a  question  we  must  meet 
and  answer  practically. 

It  may  be  asked  why  a  force  of  this  na- 
ture has  been  so  long  neglected  by  prac- 
tising physicians.  The  answer  is  very 
simple,  and  will  be  recognized  as  true  by 
all  middle-aged  physicians  in  this  country. 

Eor  the  past  fifty  years  it  has  been  cus- 
tomary to  state  in  lectures  in  our  medical 
colleges,  that  "chemistry  has  nothing  to 
do  with  medicine  " ;  and  since  our  teachers 
knew  nothing  of  the  subject  themselves, 
they  denounced  such  knowledge  as  un- 
necessary to  the  physician.  Electricity, 
the  great  moving  power  in  all  chemical 
actions,  shared  the  fate  of  chemistry  in 
general,  and  met  with  condemnation  with- 
out trial.  A  young  physician  did  not  dare 
to  meddle  with  chemicals  or  with  any 
branch  of  natural  or  experimental  science, 
for  fear  of  losing  his  chance  of  medical 
employment  by  sinking  the  doctor  among 
bis  gallipots. 

Electricity,  thus  neglected,  fell  into  the 
hands  of  irregular  practitioners,  and  was 
as  often  used  injuriously  as  beneficially, 
and  more  frequently  without  any  effect. 
The  absurd  pretensions  of  galvanic  baths 
for  the  extraction  of  mercury  from  the 
system  will  be  remembered  by  most  of 
our  citizens,  and  the  shocking  practice  of 
others  is  not  forgotten. 

It  was  therefore  earnestly  desired  by 
medical  practitioners  who  themselves  were 
not  by  education  competent  to  manage 
electric  and  galvanic  machinery,  that  some 
medical  man  of  good  standing,  who  had 
made  a  special  study  of  this  subject,  should 
undertake  the  treatment  of  diseases  re- 
quiring the  use  of  electricity.     Dr.  Gar- 


ratt  was  induced  to  undertake  this  im- 
portant duty,  and  he  has  prepared  a  work 
on  this  practice  which  embraces  all  that 
has  appeared  in  the  writings  of  others, 
both  in  this  country  and  Europe,  while  he 
has,  from  his  own  researches  and  rich  ex- 
perience, added  much  new  matter  of  great 
practical  value.  Among  his  original  con- 
tributions we  note,  — 

1st.  A  definite,  systematic  method  for 
the  application  of  Galvanic  and  Faradaic 
currents  of  electricity  to  the  human  organ- 
ism, for  curing  or  aiding  in  the  cure  of  giv- 
en classes  of  diseases.  (See  pages  475,  479, 
and  669  to  706 ;  also  Chap.  5,  p.  280.) 

2d.  Improvements  in  the  methods  of  ap- 
plying electricity,  as  stated  on  pages  293 
to  296,  and  300,  329,  and  332,  which  we 
have  not  room  to  copy. 

3d.  He  has  introduced  the  term  Fara- 
daic current  to  represent  the  induced  cur- 
rent, first  discovered  by  Professor  Henry, 
and  so  much  extended  in  application  by 
Faraday. 

4th.  The  determination  of  several  defi- 
nite points  in  sentient  and  mixed  nerves, 
often  the  seats  of  neuralgic  pain, —  thus  cor- 
recting Dr.  Valleix's  painful  points. 

6th.  The  treatment  of  uterine,  and  some 
other  female  disorders,  by  means  of  the 
induced  galvanic  current  (pages  612  to 
621). 

A  careful  examination  of  this  book  shows 
it  to  contain  a  very  full  r€sume  of  the  best 
which  have  been  written  on  the  subjects 
embraced  under  the  medical  applications 
of  electricity  in  its  various  modes  of  devel- 
opment, and  a  careful  analysis  of  the  doc- 
trines of  others ;  while  the  author  has  given 
frankly  an  account  of  cases  in  which  he 
has  failed,  as  of  those  in  which  he  has  been 
successful.  He  does  not  offer  electric  treat- 
ment as  a  panacea  for  "  all  the  ills  which 
flesh  is  heir  to,"  but  shows  how  far  and 
in  what  cases  it  proves  beneficial.  He  has 
shown  that  there  is  a  right  and  a  wrong 
way  of  operating,  and  that  mischief  may 
be  done  by  an  unskilful  hand,  while  one 
who  is  well  qualified  by  scientific  knowl- 
edge and  practical  experience  may  do 
much  good,  and  in  many  diseases, — more 
especially  in  those  of  the  nerves,  such  as 
neuralgia  and  partial  paralysis,  in  which 
remarkable  cures  have  been  effected.  We 
commend  this  work  to  the  attention  of  med- 
ical gentlemen,  and  especially  to  students 
of  medicine  who  wish  to  be  posted  up  in 


648 


Hecent  American  Publications. 


[November. 


the  novel  methods  of  treating  diseases.  It 
is  also  a  book  which  all  scientific  men  may 
consult  with  advantage,  and  which  will 
gratify  the  curiosity  of  the  general  scholar. 


Memoir  of  Edward  Forbes,  F.  R.  S.,  Late 
Regius  Professor  of  Natural  History  in  the 
University  of  Edinburgh.      By  George 

I  Wilson,  M.  D.,  F.  R.  S.  E.,  and  Archi- 
bald Geikie,  F.  R.  S.  E.,  etc.  Cam- 
bridge and  London :  MacMillan  &  Co. 

Dr.  Wilson  did  not  live  to  finish  the 
memoir  which  he  so  ably  began.  The 
great  naturalist,  Edward  Forbes,  deserved 
the  best  from  his  contemporaries,  and  we 
axe  glad  to  have  the  combined  labors  of 
such  distinguished   men  as  Wilson  and 


Geikie  put  forth  in  commemoration  of 
him.  The  chair  of  Natural  History  at 
Edinburgh  was  honored  by  him  whose  bi- 
ography is  now  before  us.  His  advent  to 
that  eminent  post  was  everywhere  hailed 
with  a  unanimity  that  augured  well  for  his 
career,  and  no  one  could  have  been  chosen 
to  succeed  the  illustrious  Jameson  for  whom 
there  could  have  been  more  enthusiasm. 
His  admitted  genius  and  the  range  of  his 
acquirements  fully  entitled  him  to  the  of- 
fice, and  all  who  knew  him  looked  forward 
to  brilliant  accomplishments  in  his  varied 
paths  of  science.  Death  closed  the  brief 
years  of  this  earnest  student  at  the  early 
age  of  thirty -nine.  Cut  off  in  the  prime 
of  his  days,  with  his  powers  and  purposes 
but  partially  unfolded,  he  yet  shows  grand- 
ly among  the  best  men  of  his  time. 


EECENT  AMERICAN   PUBLICATIONS 


RECEIVED  BY  THE  EDITORS  OF  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY. 


The  Laws  of  Massachusetts  relating  to  Indi- 
vidual Rights  and  Liabilities,  compiled  from 
the  General  Statutes.  Boston.  Benj.  B.  Rus- 
sell.   16mo.    paper,    pp.  131.    25  cts. 

Chambers's  Encyclopasdia.  A  Dictionary  of 
Universal  Knowledge  for  the  People.  Part 
XXXIV.  Philadelphia.  J.  B.  Lippincott  & 
Co.    8vo.    paper,    pp.  47.    15  cts. 

A  Course  of  Six  Lectures  on  the  Chemical 
History  of  a  Candle ;  to  which  is  added  a  Lec- 
ture on  Platinum.  By  Michael  Faraday.  New 
York.  Harper  &  Brothers.  24mo.  pp.  217. 
50  cts. 

Great  Expectations.  By  Charles  Dickens. 
Philadelphia.  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers.  8vo. 
pp.  266.    $1.50. 

Latin  Accidence  and  Primarj'  Lesson-Book, 
containing  a  full  Exhibition  of  the  Fonns  of 
Words,  and  First  Lessons  in  Reading.  By 
George  W.  Collord,  A.  M.  New  York.  Harper 
&  Brothers.    12mo.    pp.  348.    $1.00. 

Life  and  Adventures  in  the  South  Pacific. 
By  a  Roving  Printer.  New  York.  Harper  & 
Brothers.     12mo.     pp.  354.     $1.25. 

The  Southern  Rebellion,  and  the  War  for 
the  Union.  A  History  of  the  Rise  and  Prog- 
ress of  the  Rebellion,  and  Consecutive  Narra- 
tive of  Events  and  Incidents.  New  York. 
James  D.  Torrey.   8vo.   paper,   pp.  32.  10  cts. 


Positive  Facts  without  a  Shadow  of  Doubt. 
By  Michael  George  Duignan.  New  York. 
Printed  for  the  Publisher.  8vo.  pp.  1103. 
$2.50. 

The  House  on  the  Moor.  By  the  Author 
of  "  Margaret  Maitland,"  etc.  New  York. 
Harper  &  Brothers.    12mo.    pp.  405.    $1.00, 

Learning  to  Read,  to  Write,  and  to  Com- 
pose, —  all  at  the  Same  Time.  By  J.  A.  Jacobs, 
A.  M.  New  York.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.  18mo. 
pp.  330.    50  cts. 

First  Lessons  in  Greek:  the  Beginner's  Com- 
panion-Book to  Hadley's  Grammar.  By 
James  Morris  Whiton.  New  York.  D.  Ap- 
pleton &  Co.    12rao.    pp.  120.     75  cts. 

Precaution.  A  Novel.  By  J.  Fenimore  Coop- 
er. With  a  Discourse  on  the  Life,  Genius,  and 
Writings  of  the  Author,  by  William  Cullen 
Bryant.  Illustrated  from  Drawings  by  F.  O. 
C.  Darley.  New  York.  W.  A.  Townsend  & 
Co.    12mo.    pp.  485.    $1.50. 

Eighty  Years'  Progress  of  the  United  States, 
showing  the  Various  Channels  of  Industry 
and  Education  through  which  the  People  of 
the  United  States  have  arisen  from  a  British 
Colony  to  their  Present  National  Importance. 
Illustrated  with  over  Two  Hundred  Engrav- 
ings. New  York  and  Worcester.  L.  Steb- 
bins.  2  vols.   Svo.    pp.  457,  455.    $5.00. 


THE 


ATLANTIC  MONTHLY. 


A    MAGAZINE    OF    LITERATURE,    ART,    AND    POLITICS. 


VOL.  VIII.— DECEMBER,  1861.— NO.  L. 


THE   HOME   OF   LAFAYETTE. 


After  General  Lafayette's  visit  to 
the  United  States,  in  1824,  every  Amer- 
ican -who  went  to  France  went  with  a 
firm  conviction  that  he  had  a  right  to 
take  as  much  as  he  chose  of  the  old  gen- 
tleman's time  and  hospitality,  at  his  own 
estimate  of  their  value.  Fortunately,  the 
number  of  travellers  was  not  great  in 
those  days,  although  a  week  seldom  pass- 
ed without  bringing  two  or  three  new 
faces  to  the  Rue  d'Anjou  or  La  Grange. 
It  was  well  both  for  the  purse  and  the 
patience  of  the  kind-hearted  old  man 
that  ocean  steamers  were  still  a  doubtful 
problem,  and  first-class  packets  rarely 
over  five  hundred  tons. 

It  could  hardly  be  expected  that  a  boy 
of  sixteen  should  have  more  discretion 
than  his  elders ;  and  following  the  uni- 
versal example  of  my  countrymen,  the 
first  use  that  I  made  of  a  Parisian  cabrio- 
let was  to  drive  to  No.  6,  Rue  d'Anjou. 
The  porte  cochere  was  open,  and  the  por- 
ter in  his  lodge,  —  a  brisk  little  French- 
man, somewhat  past  middle  age,  with  just 
bows  enough  to  prove  his  nationality,  and 
very  expressive  gestures,  which  I  under- 
stood much  better  than  I  did  his  words ; 
for  they  said,  or  seemed  to  say,  —  "  The 


General  is  out,  and  I  will  take  charge  of 
your  letter  and  card."  There  was  noth- 
ing else  for  me  to  do,  and  so,  handing 
over  my  credentials,  I  gave  the  rest  of 
the  morning  to  sight-seeing,  and,  being  a 
novice  at  it  and  alone,  soon  got  tired  and 
returned  to  my  hotel. 

I  don't  know  how  that  hotel  would  look 
to  me  now ;  but  to  my  untrained  eyes 
of  that  day  it  looked  wonderfully  fine.  I 
liked  the  name,  —  the  Petit  Hotel  Mont- 
morenci,  —  for  I  knew  enough  of  French 
history  to  know  that  Montmorenci  had  al- 
ways been  a  great  name  in  France.  Then 
it  was  the  favorite  resort  of  Americans ; 
and  although  I  was  learning  the  phras- 
es in  Blagdon  as  fast  as  I  could,  I  still 
found  English  by  far  the  most  agreeable 
means  of  communication  for  everything 
beyond  an  appeal  to  the  waiter  for  more 
wood  or  a  clean  toweL  Table  d'Hote, 
too,  brought  us  all  together,  with  an  abun- 
dant, if  not  a  rich,  harvest  of  personal  ex- 
periences gathered  during  the  day  from 
every  quarter  of  the  teeming  city.  Brad- 
ford was  there  with  his  handsome  face 
and  fine  figure,  —  an  old  resident,  as  it 
then  seemed  to  me;  for  he  had  been 
abroad  two  years,  and  could  speak  what 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1861,  by  Ticknor  and  Fields,  in  the  Clerk's  Office 
of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 
VOL.   VIII.  42 


650 


TJie  Home  of  Lafayette. 


[December, 


sounded  to  my  ears  as  French-like  as  any 
French  I  had  ever  heard.  Poor  fellow ! 
scarce  three  years  had  passed  when  he 
laid  him  down  to  his  last  sleep  in  a  con- 
vent of  Jerusalem,  without  a  friend  to 
smooth  his  pillow  or  listen  to  his  last  wish- 
es. Of  most  of  the  others  the  names 
have  escaped  me  ;  but  I  shall  never  for- 
get how  wide  I  opened  my  eyes,  one  even- 
ing, at  the  assertion  of  a  new-comer,  that 
he  had  done  more  for  the  enlightenment 
of  France  than  any  man  living  or  dead. 
The  incomparable  gravity  with  which  the 
assertion  was  made  drew  every  eye  to 
the  speaker,  who,  after  enjoying  our  as- 
tonishment for  a  while,  told  us  that  he 
had  been  the  first  to  send  out  a  whaler 
from  Havre,  and  had  secured  almost  a 
monopoly  of  the  oil-trade.  Some  years 
afterwards  I  made  a  passage  with  his 
brother,  and  learned  from  him  the  histo- 
ry of  this  Yankee  enterprise,  which  had 
filled  two  capacious  purses,  and  substitut- 
ed the  harpoon  for  the  pruning-knife,  the 
whale-ship  for  the  olive-orchard,  in  the 
very  stronghold  of  the  emblem  of  peace ; 
and  now  the  collier  with  his  pickaxe  has 
driven  them  both  from  the  field.  But 
the  Petit  Hotel  Montmorenci  did  not 
wait  for  the  change.  Its  broad  court  was 
never  enlivened  by  gas.  Its  tables  and 
mantels  were  decked  to  the  last  hour 
with  the  alabaster  whiteness  of  those  pure 
wax  tapers  which  shed  such  a  soft  light 
upon  your  book,  and  grew  up  into  such 
formidable  items  in  your  bills.  A  long 
passage  —  one  of  those  luxuries  of  rainy, 
muddy  Paris,  lined  with  stores  that  you 
cannot  help  lingering  over,  if  for  noth- 
ing else,  to  wonder  at  the  fertility  of  the 
human  brain  when  it  makes  itself  the 
willing  minister  of  human  caprice  —  cov- 
ers the  whole  space  which  the  hotel  stood 
on,  and  unites  the  Neuve  St.  Marc  with 
the  once  distant  Boulevard. 

As  I  passed  the  porter's  lodge,  he  hand- 
ed me  a  letter.  The  hand  was  one  that 
I  had  never  seen  before ;  the  address  was 
in  French ;  and  the  seal,  red  wax  thinly 
spread,  but  something  which  had  been 
put  on  it  before  it  was  cool  had  entirely 
effaced  the  impress :  as  I  afterwards  learn- 


ed, it  was  the  profile  of  Washington.  I 
opened  it,  and  judge  my  surprise  and  de- 
light on  reading  the  following  words:  — 

^^  Parts,  Thursday. 
"  I  am  very  sorry  not  to  have  had  the 
pleasure  to  see  you  when  you  have  called 
this  morning,  my  dear  Sir.  My  stay  in 
town  will  be  short.  But  you  will  find 
me  to-morrow  from  nine  in  the  morning 
until  twelve.  I  hope  we  shall  see  you 
soon  at  La  Grange,  which  I  beg  of  you 
to  consider  as  your  home,  being  that  of 
your  grandfather's  most  intimate  friend 
and  brother-in-arms. 

"  Lafayette." 

It  was  nearly  eleven  when  I  reached 
the  Rue  d'Anjou  and  began  for  the  first 
time  to  mount  the  broad  stairway  of  a 
Parisian  palace.  The  General's  apart- 
ments were  on  the  entresol,  with  a  sepa- 
rate staircase  from  the  first  landing  of 
the  principal  one  ;  for  his  lameness  made 
it  difficult  for  him  to  go  up-stairs,  and 
the  entresol,  a  half- story  between  the 
ground  floor  and  the  first  story,  when, 
as  was  the  case  here,  high  enough  in  the 
ceiling,  is  one  of  the  freest  and  pleasant- 
est  parts  of  a  French  house.  His  apart- 
ments comprised  five  rooms  on  a  line, — 
an  antechamber,  a  dining-room,  two  par- 
lors, and  a  bed-room,  with  windows  on  the 
street, — and  the  same  number  of  smaller 
rooms  on  a  parallel  line,  with  their  win- 
dows on  the  court -yard,  which  served 
for  his  secretary  and  servants.  The  fur- 
niture throughout  was  neat  and  plain : 
the  usual  comfortable  arm-chairs  and  so- 
fas, the  indispensable  clock  and  mirror 
over  the  mantelpiece,  and  in  each  fire- 
place a  cheerful  wood-fire.  There  were 
two  or  three  servants  in  the  antecham- 
ber, well-dressed,  but  not  in  livery ;  and 
in  the  parlor,  into  which  I  was  shown  on 
handing  my  card,  two  or  three  persons 
waiting  for  an  audience.  Fortunately 
for  me,  they  were  there  on  business,  and 
the  business  was  soon  despatched ;  and 
passing,  in  turn,  into  the  reception  parlor, 
I  found  myself  in  the  presence  of  the 
friend  of  Washington  and  my  grandfa- 


1861.] 


The  Home  of  Lafayette. 


651 


ther.  He  received  me  so  cordially,  with 
such  kind  inquiries  into  the  object  and 
cause  of  my  journey,  such  a  fatherly  in- 
terest in  my  plans  and  aims,  such  an  ear- 
nest repetition  of  the  invitation  he  had 
given  me  in  his  note  to  look  upon  La 
Grange  as  my  home,  that  I  felt  at  once 
that  I  was  no  longer  without  a  guide  and 
protector  in  a  foreign  land.  It  was  some 
time  before  I  could  observe  him  closely 
enough  to  get  a  just  idea  of  his  appear- 
ance ;  for  I  had  never  before  been  con- 
sciously in  the  presence  of  a  man  who 
had  filled  so  many  pages  of  real  history, 
and  of  the  history  which  above  all  others 
I  was  most  interested  in.  I  felt  as  if  a 
veil  had  been  suddenly  lifted,  and  the 
great  men  I  had  read  of  and  dreamed 
of  were  passing  before  me.  There  were 
the  features  which,  though  changed,  had 
so  often  called  up  a  smile  of  welcome  to 
the  lips  of  Washington ;  there  was  the 
man  who  had  shared  with  my  grandfa- 
ther the  perils  of  the  Brandywine  and 
Monmouth,  the  long  winter  encampment, 
and  the  wearisome  summer  march;  the 
man  whom  Napoleon  had  tried  all  the 
fascinations  of  his  art  upon,  and  failed  to 
lure  him  from  his  devotion  to  the  cause  of 
freedom ;  whom  Marat  and  Robespierre 
had  marked  out  for  destruction,  aud 
kings  and  emperors  leagued  against  in 
hatred  and  fear.  It  was  more  like  a 
dream  than  a  reality,  and  for  the  first 
twenty  minutes  I  was  almost  afraid  to 
stir  for  fear  I  might  wake  up  and  find 
the  vision  gone.  But  when  I  began  to 
look  at  him  as  a  being  of  real  flesh  and 
blood,  I  found  that  Ary  Scheffer's  por- 
trait had  not  deceived  me.  Features, 
expression,  carriage,  all  were  just  as  it 
had  taught  me  to  expect  them,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  always  known 
him.  The  moment  I  felt  this  I  began  to 
feel  at  my  ease  ;  and  though  I  never  en- 
tirely lost  the  feeling  that  I  had  a  living 
chapter  of  history  before  me,  I  soon  learn- 
ed to  look  upon  him  as  a  father. 

As  I  was  rising  to  go,  a  lady  entered 
the  room,  and,  without  waiting  for  an  in- 
troduction, held  out  her  hand  so  cordially 
that  I  knew  it  must  be  one  of  his  daugh- 


ters. It  was  Madame  de  Lasteyrie,  who, 
like  her  mother  and  sister,  had  shared 
his  dungeon  at  Olmiitz.  Her  English, 
though  perfectly  intelligible,  was  not  as 
fluent  as  her  father's,  but  she  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  saying  some  pleasant  things  about 
family  friendship  which  made  me  very 
happy.  She  lived  in  the  same  street, 
though  not  in  the  same  house  with  the 
General,  and  that  morning  my  good-for- 
tune had  brought  the  whole  family  to- 
gether at  No.  6. 

The  occasion  was  a  singular  one.  One 
of  those  heartless  speculators  to  whom 
our  Government  has  too  often  given  free 
scope  among  the  Indian  tribes  of  our  bor- 
ders had  brought  to  France  a  party  of 
Osages,  on  an  embassy,  as  he  gave  them 
to  understand,  but  in  reality  with  the 
intention  of  exhibiting  them,  very  much 
as  Van  Amburgh  exhibits  his  wild  beasts. 
General  Lafayette  was  determined,  if 
possible,  to  counteract  this  abominable 
scheme  ;  but  as,  unfortunately,  there  was 
no  one  who  could  interpret  for  him  but 
the  speculator  himself,  he  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  make  the  poor  Indians  understand 
their  real  position.  He  had  already  seen 
and  talked  with  them,  and  was  feeling 
very  badly  at  not  being  able  to  do  more. 
This  morning  he  was  to  receive  them  at 
his  house,  and  his  own  family,  with  one 
or  two  personal  friends,  had  been  invited 
to  witness  the  interview. 

Madame  de  Lasteyrie  was  soon  follow- 
ed by  her  daughters,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments I  found  myself  shaking  some  very 
pretty  hands,  and  smiled  upon  by  some 
very  pretty  faces.  It  was  something  of  a 
trial  for  one  who  had  never  been  in  a 
full  drawing-room  in  his  life,  and  whom 
Nature  had  predestined  to  mauvaise  Jionte 
to  the  end  of  his  days.  Still  I  made  the 
best  of  it,  and  as  there  is  nothing  so  dread- 
ful, after  all,  in  a  bright  eye  and  rosy  lip, 
and  the  General's  invitation  to  look  upon 
his  house  as  my  home  was  so  evidently 
to  be  taken  in  its  literal  interpretation,  I 
soon  began  to  feel  at  my  ease. 

The  rooms  gradually  filled.  Madame 
de  Maubourg  came  in  soon  after  her  sis- 
ter, and,  as  I  was  talking  to  one  of  the 


652 


The  Home  of  Lafayette. 


[December, 


young  ladies,  a  gentleman  with  a  coun- 
tenance not  altogether  unlike  the  Gener- 
al's, though  nearly  bald,  and  -with  what 
was  left  of  his  hair  perfectly  gray,  came  up 
and  introduced  himself  to  me  as  George 
Lafayette.  It  was  the  last  link  in  the 
chain.  The  last  letter  that  my  grand- 
father ever  wrote  to  General  Lafayette 
had  been  about  a  project  which  they  had 
formed  at  the  close  of  the  war,  to  bring 
up  their  sons  —  "  the  two  George  Wash- 
ingtons"  —  together;  and  as  soon  after 
General  Greene's  death  as  the  necessa- 
ry arrangement  could  be  made,  my  poor 
uncle  was  sent  to  France  and  placed  un- 
der the  General's  care.  It  was  of  him 
that  General  Washington  had  written  to 
CoIoimI  Wadsworth,  "  But  should  it  turn 
out  differently,  and  Mrs.  Greene,  yourself, 
and  Mr.  Rutledge"  (General  Greene's 
executors)  "  should  think  proper  to  in- 
trust my  namesake,  G.  W.  Greene,  to 
my  care,  I  will  give  him  as  good  an  edu- 
cation as  this  country  (I  mean  North 
America)  will  afford,  and  will  bring 
him  up  to  either  of  the  genteel  profes- 
sions that  his  friends  may  choose  or  his 
own  inclination  shall  lead  him  to  pursue, 
at  my  own  cost  and  charge."  "  He  is 
a  lively  boy,"  wrote  General  Knox  to 
Washington,  on  returning  from  putting 
him  on  board  the  French  packet,  "  and, 
with  a  good  education,  will  probably  be 
an  honor  to  the  name  of  his  father  and 
the  pride  of  his  friends." 

I  may  be  pardoned  for  dwelling  a  mo- 
ment on  the  scanty  memorials  of  one 
whose  name  is  often  mentioned  in  the 
letters  of  Washington,  and  whose  early 
promise  awakened  the  fondest  expecta- 
tions. He  was  a  beautiful  boy,  if  the  ex- 
quisite little  miniature  before  me  may  be 
trusted,  blending  sweetly  the  more  char- 
acteristic traits  of  his  father  and  mother 
in  his  face,  in  a  way  that  must  have  made 
him  very  dear  to  both.  With  the  officers 
and  soldiers  he  was  a  great  favorite,  and 
it  cost  his  father  a  hard  effort  to  deny 
himself  the  gratification  of  having  him  al- 
ways with  him  at  camp  during  the  winter. 
But  the  sense  of  paternal  duty  prevailed, 
and  as  soon  as  he  was  thought  old  enough 


to  profit  by  it,  he  was  put  under  the 
charge  of  Dr.  Witherspoon  at  Princeton. 
"  I  cannot  omit  informing  you,"  writes 
General  Washington,  in  1783,  "  that  I  let 
no  opportunity  slip  to  inquire  after  your 
son  George  at  Princeton,  and  that  it  is 
with  pleasure  I  hear  he  enjoys  good 
health,  and  is  a  fine,  promising  boy." 
He  remained  in  France  till  1792,  when 
his  mother's  anxiety  for  his  safety  over- 
came her  desire  for  the  completion  of  his 
studies,  and  she  wrote  to  Gouverneur 
Morris,  who  was  then  in  France,  to  send 
him  home.  "Mr.  Jefferson,"  reads  the 
autograph  before  me,  "  presents  his  most 
respectful  compliments  to  Mrs.  Greene, 
and  will  with  great  pleasure  write  to  Mr. 
Morris  on  the  subject  of  her  son's  return, 
forwarding  her  letter  at  the  same  time. 
He  thinks  Mrs.  Greene  concluded  that  he 
should  return  by  the  way  of  London.  If 
he  is  mistaken,  she  will  be  so  good  as  to 
correct  him,  as  his  letter  to  Mr.  Morris 
will  otherwise  be  on  that  supposition." 
He  returned  a  large,  vigorous,  athletic 
man,  full  of  the  scenes  he  had  witnessed, 
and  ready  to  engage  in  active  life  with  the 
ardor  of  his  age  and  the  high  hopes  which 
his  name  authorized ;  for  it  was  in  the  days 
of  Washington  and  Hamilton  and  Knox, 
men  who  extended  to  the  son  the  love 
they  had  borne  to  the  father.  But  his 
first  winter  was  to  be  given  to  his  home, 
to  his  mother  and  sisters ;  and  there,  while 
pursuing  too  eagerly  his  favorite  sport  of 
duck-shooting  from  a  canoe  on  the  Sa- 
vannah, his  boat  was  overset,  and,  though 
his  companion  escaped  by  clinging  to  the 
canoe,  he  was  borne  down  by  the  weight 
of  his  accoutrements  and  drowned.  The 
next  day  the  body  was  recovered,  and 
the  vault  which  but  six  years  before  had 
prematurely  opened  its  doors  to  receive 
the  remains  of  the  father  was  opened 
again  for  the  son.  Not  long  after,  his 
family  removed  to  Cumberland  Island 
and  ceased  to  look  upon  Savannah  as 
their  burial-place ;  and  when,  for  the  first 
time,  after  the  lapse  of  more  than  thirty 
years,  and  at  the  approach  of  Lafayette 
on  his  last  memorable  visit  to  the  United 
States,  a  people  awoke  from  their  leth- 


1861.] 


The  Home  of  Lafayette. 


G53 


argy  and  asked  where  the  bones  of  the 
hero  of  the  South  had  been  laid,  there 
•was  no  one  to  point  out  their  resting- 
place.  Happy,  if  what  the  poet  tells  us 
be  true,  and  "  still  in  our  ashes  live  their 
wonted  fires,"  that  they  have  long  since 
mingled  irrevocably  with  the  soil  of  the 
land  that  he  saved,  and  can  never  be- 
come associated  with  a  movement  that 
has  been  disgraced  by  the  vile  flag  of  Se- 
cession ! 

But  to  return  to  the  Rue  d'Anjou.  A 
loud  noise  in  the  street  announced  the 
approach  of  the  Indians,  whose  appear- 
ance in  an  open  carriage  had  drawn  to- 
gether a  dense  crowd  of  sight-loving  Pa- 
risians ;  and  in  a  few  moments  they  en- 
tered, decked  out  in  characteristic  finery, 
but  without  any  of  that  natural  grace  and 
dignity  which  I  had  been  taught  to  look 
for  in  the  natives  of  the  forest.  The  Gen- 
eral received  them  with  the  dignified  af- 
fability which  was  the  distinctive  charac- 
teristic of  his  manner  under  all  circum- 
stances ;  and  although  there  was  nothing 
in  the  occasion  to  justify  it,  I  could  not 
help  recalling  Madame  de  Stael's  com- 
ment upon  his  appearance  at  Versailles, 
on  the  fearful  fifth  of  October :  —  "  M.  de 
la  Fayette  was  perfectly  calm ;  nobody 
ever  saw  him  otherwise."  Withdrawing 
with  them  into  an  inner  room,  he  did  his 
best,  as  he  afterwards  told  me,  to  prevail 
upon  them  to  return  home,  though  not 
without  serious  doubts  of  the  honesty  of 
their  interpreter.  It  was  while  this  pri- 
vate conference  was  going  on  that  I  got 
my  first  sight  of  Cooper,  —  completing 
my  morning's  experience  by  exchanging 
a  few  words  with  the  man,  of  all  others 
among  my  countrymen,  whom  I  had  most 
wished  to  know.  Meanwhile  the  table 
in  the  dining-room  was  spread  with  cakes 
and  preserves,  and  before  the  company 
withdrew,  they  had  a  good  opportunity  of 
convincing  themselves,  that,  if  the  Amer- 
ican Indian  had  made  but  little  progress 
in  the  other  arts  of  civilization,  he  had 
attained  to  a  full  appreciation  of  the  vir- 
tues of  sweetmeats  and  pastry. 

I  cannot  close  this  portion  of  my  sto- 
ry without  relating  my  second  interview 


with  my  aboriginal  countrymen,  not  quite 
so  satisfactory  as  the  first,  but  at  least  with 
its  amusing,  or  rather  its  laughable  side. 
I  was  living  in  Siena,  a  quiet  old  Tus- 
can town,  with  barely  fifteen  thousand  in- 
habitants to  occupy  a  circuit  of  wall  that 
had  once  held  fifty, —  but  with  all  the  re- 
mains of  its  former  greatness  about  it, 
noble  palaces,  a  cathedral  second  in  beau- 
ty to  that  of  Milan  alone,  churches  filled 
with  fine  pictures,  an  excellent  public 
library,  (God's  blessing  be  upon  it,  for  it 
was  in  one  of  its  dreamy  alcoves  that  I 
first  read  Dante,)  a  good  opera  in  the 
summer,  and  good  society  all  the  year 
round.  Month  was  gliding  after  month 
in  happy  succession.  I  had  dropped  read- 
ily into  the  tranquil  round  of  the  daily 
life,  had  formed  many  acquaintances  and 
two  or  three  intimate  ones,  and,  though 
reminded  from  time  to  time  of  the  Gen- 
eral by  a  paternal  letter,  had  altogether 
forgotten  the  specimens  of  the  children 
of  the  forest  whom  I  had  seen  under  his 
roof.  One  evening  —  I  do  not  remember 
the  month,  though  I  think  it  was  late  in 
the  autumn  —  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
to  stay  at  home  and  study,  and  was  just 
sitting  down  to  my  books,  when  a  friend 
came  in  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had 
something  very  interesting  to  say. 

"  Quick,  quick !  shut  your  book,  and 
come  with  me  to  the  theatre." 

"  Impossible  !  I  'm  tired,  and,  more- 
over, have  something  to  do  which  I  must 
do  to-night." 

"  To-morrow  night  will  do  just  as  well 
for  that,  but  not  for  the  theatre." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  there  are  some  of  your  coun- 
trymen here  who  are  going  to  be  exhibit- 
ed on  the  stage,  and  the  Countess  P 

and  all  your  friends  want  you  to  come 
and  interpret  for  them." 

"  Infinitely  obliged.  And  pray,  what 
do  you  mean  by  saying  that  some  of 
my  countrymen  are  to  be  exhibited  on 
the  stage  ?  Do  you  take  Americans  for 
mountebanks  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  that ;  but  it  is  just 
as  I  tell  you.  Some  Americans  will  ap- 
pear on  the  stage  to-night  and  make  a 


654 


The  Home  of  Lafayette 


[December, 


speech  in  American,  and  you  must  come 
and  explain  it  to  us." 

I  must  confess,  that,  at  first,  my  digni- 
ty was  a  Httle  hurt  at  the  idea  of  an  ex- 
hibition of  Americans ;  but  a  moment's 
reflection  convinced  me  that  I  had  no 
grounds  for  offence,  and  all  of  a  sudden 
it  occurred  to  me  that  the  "  Americans  " 
might  be  my  friends  of  the  Rue  d'Anjou, 
whose  "  guide  and  interpreter,"  though 
hardly  their  "  friend,"  had  got  them  down 
as  far  as  Siena  on  the  general  embassy. 
I  was  resolved  to  see,  and  accordingly 
exchanging  my  dressing-gown  and  slip- 
pers for  a  dress-box  costume,  I  accom- 
panied my  friend  to  the  theatre.  My  ap- 
pearance at  the  pit-door  was  the  signal  for 
nods  and  beckonings  from  a  dozen  boxes ; 
but  as  no  one  could  dispute  the  superior 

claims  of  the   Countess  P ,  I   soon 

found  myself  seated  in  the  front  of  her 
Ladyship's  box,  and  the  chief  object  of 
attention  till  the  curtain  rose. 

"And  now,  my  dear  G ,  tell  us 

all  about  these  strange  countrymen  of 
yours,  —  how  they  live,  —  whether  it  is 
true  that  they  eat  one  another,  —  what 
kind  of  houses  they  have,  —  how  they 
treat  their  women,  —  and  everything  else 
that  we  ought  to  know." 

Two  or  three  years  later,  when  Cooper 
began  to  be  translated,  they  would  have 
known  better ;  but  now  nothing  could 
convince  them  that  I  was  not  perfectly 
qualified  to  answer  all  their  questions 
and  stand  interpreter  between  my  coun- 
trymen and  the  audience.  Fortunately, 
I  had  read  Irving's  beautiful  paper  in  the 
"  Sketch-Book,"  and  knew  "  The  Last  of 
the  Mohicans  "  by  heart ;  and  putting  to- 
gether, as  well  as  I  could,  the  ideas  of  In- 
dian life  I  had  gained  from  these  sources, 
I  accomplished  my  task  to  the  entire  satis- 
faction of  my  interrogators.  At  last  the 
curtain  rose,  and,  though  reduced  in  num- 
ber, and  evidently  much  the  worse  for 
their  protracted  stay  in  the  land  of  civil- 
ization and  brandy,  there  they  were,  the 
very  Osages  I  had  seen  at  the  good  old 
General's.  The  interpreter  came  for- 
ward and  told  his  story,  making  them 
chiefs  of  rank  on  a  tour  of  pleasure.  And 


a  burly-looking  fellow,  walking  up  and 
down  the  stage  with  an  air  that  gave  the 
lie  to  every  assertion  of  the  interpreter, 
made  a  speech  in  deep  gutturals  to  the 
great  delight  of  the  listeners.  Fortunate- 
ly for  me,  the  Italian  love  of  sound  kept 
my  companions  still  till  the  speech  was 
ended,  and  then,  just  as  they  were  turn- 
ing to  me  for  a  translation,  the  inter- 
preter announced  his  intention  of  trans- 
lating it  for  them  himself.  Nothing  else, 
I  verily  believe,  could  have  saved  my 
reputation,  and  enabled  me  to  retain  my 
place  as  a  native-born  American.  When 
the  exhibition  was  over,  —  and  even  with 
the  ludicrousness  of  my  part  of  it,  to  me 
it  was  a  sad  one,  —  I  went  behind  the 
scenes  to  take  a  nearer  view  of  these 
poor  victims  of  avarice.  They  were  sit- 
ting round  a  warming-pan,  looking  jaded 
and  worn,  brutalized  beyond  even  what 
I  had  first  imagined.  It  was  my  last  sight 
of  them,  and  I  was  glad  of  it ;  how  far 
they  went,  and  how  many  of  them  found 
their  way  back  to  their  native  land,  I 
never  was  able  to  learn. 

Before  I  left  the  Rue  d'Anjou,  it  was 
arranged,  that,  as  soon  as  I  had  seen  a 
little  more  of  Paris,  I  should  go  to  La 
Grange.  "  One  of  the  young  ladies  will 
teach  you  French,"  said  the  General, 
"  and  you  can  make  your  plans  for  the 
winter  at  your  leisure." 


LA   GRANGE. 

It  was  on  a  bright  autumn  morning 
that  I  started  for  the  little  village  of  Ro- 
say,  —  some  two  leagues  from  Paris,  and 
the  nearest  point  by  diligence  to  La 
Grange.  A  railroad  passes  almost  equal- 
ly near  to  it  now,  and  the  French  dill' 
gence,  hke  its  English  and  American 
counterpart,  the  stage-coach,  has  long 
since  been  shorn  of  its  honors.  Yet  it 
was  a  pleasant  mode  of  travelling,  taking 
you  from  place  to  place  in  a  way  to  give 
you  a  good  general  idea  of  the  country 
you  were  passing  through,  and  bringing 
you  into  much  closer  relations  with  your 
fellow-travellers  than  you  can  form  in  a 
rail-car.     There  was  the  crowd  at  the 


1861.] 


The  Home  of  Lafayette. 


655 


door  of  the  post-house  -where  you  stop- 
ped to  change  horses,  and  the  little  troop 
of  wooden-shoed  children  that  followed 
you  up  the  hill,  drawling  out  in  unison, 
"  Un  peu  de  charite',  s'il  vous  plait,"  grad- 
ually quickening  their  pace  as  the  horses 
began  to  trot,  and  breaking  all  off  togeth- 
er and  tumbling  in  a  heap  as  they  scram- 
bled for  the  sous  that  were  thrown  out  to 
them. 

For  a  light,  airy  people,  the  French 
have  a  wonderful  facility  in  making  clum- 
sy-looking vehicles.  To  look  at  a  dili- 
gence, you  would  say  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  guide  it  through  a  narrow  street, 
or  turn  it  into  a  gate.  The  only  thing 
an  American  would  think  of  likening  it 
to  would  be  three  carriages  of  different 
shapes  fastened  together.  First  came 
ihe  Coupe',  in  shape  like  an  old-fashion- 
ed chariot,  with  a  seat  for  three  per- 
sons, and  glass  windows  in  front  and 
at  the  sides  that  gave  you  a  full  view 
of  everything  on  the  road.  This  was 
the  post  of  honor,  higher  in  price,  and, 
on  long  journeys,  always  secured  a  day 
or  two  beforehand.  Not  the  least  of  its 
advantages  was  the  amusement  it  afford- 
ed you  in  watching  the  postilion  and  his 
horses,  —  a  never-failing  source  of  merri- 
ment ;  and  what  to  those  who  know  how 
important  it  is,  in  a  set  of  hungry  travel- 
lers, to  secure  a  good  seat  at  table,  the 
important  fact  that  the  coupe'- door  was 
the  first  door  opened,  and  the  coupe- 
passengers  received  as  the  most  distin- 
guished personages  of  the  party.  The 
Inierieur  came  next :  somewhat  larger 
than  our  common  coach,  with  seats  for 
six,  face  to  face,  two  good  windows  at 
the  sides,  and  netting  above  for  parcels 
of  every  kind  and  size :  a  comfortable 
place,  less  exposed  to  jolts  than  the  cou- 
pi  even,  and  much  to  be  desired,  if  you 
could  but  make  sure  of  a  back-corner  and 
an  accommodating  companion  opposite  to 
you.  Last  of  all  was  the  Rotonde,  with  its 
entrance  from  the  rear,  its  seats  length- 
wise, room  for  six,  and  compensating  in 
part  for  its  comparative  inferiority  in  oth- 
er respects  by  leaving  you  free  to  get  in 
and  out  as  you  chose,  without  consulting 


the  conductor.  This,  however,  was  but 
the  first  story,  or  the  rooms  of  state  of 
this  castle  on  wheels.  On  a  covered 
dicky,  directly  above  the  coupe,  and  thus 
on  the  very  top  of  the  whole  machine, 
was  another  row  of  passengers,  with  the 
conductor  in  front,  looking  down  through 
the  dust  upon  the  world  beneath  them, 
not  very  comfortable  when  the  sun  was 
hot,  still  less  comfortable  of  a  rainy  day, 
but  just  in  the  place  which  of  all  others 
a  real  traveller  would  wish  to  be  in  at 
miorning  or  evening  or  of  a  moonlight 
night.  The  remainder  of  the  top  was  re- 
served for  the  baggage,  carefully  packed 
and  covered  up  securely  from  dust  and 
rain. 

I  had  taken  the  precaution  to  engage 
a  seat  in  the  coupe  the  day  before  I  set 
out.  Of  my  companions,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  I  have  not  the  slightest  recollection. 
But  the  road  was  good, — bordered,  as  so 
many  French  roads  are,  with  trees,  and 
filled  with  a  thousand  objects  full  of  in- 
terest to  a  young  traveller.  There  was 
the  roulage :  an  immense  cart  filled  with 
goods  of  all  descriptions,  and  drawn  by 
four  or  five  horses,  ranged  one  before  an- 
other, each  decked  with  a  merry  string 
of  bells,  and  generally  rising  in  gradu- 
ated proportions  from  the  full-sized  lead- 
er to  the  enormous  thill  horse,  who  bore 
the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day.  Some- 
times half  a  dozen  of  them  would  pass 
in  a  row,  the  drivers  walking  together 
and  whiling  away  the  time  with  stories 
and  songs.  Now  and  then  a  post-chaise 
would  whirl  by  with  a  clattering  of  wheels 
and  cracking  of  whip  that  were  general- 
ly redoubled  as  it  came  nearer  to  the  dili- 
gence, and  sank  again,  when  it  was  pass- 
ed, into  comparative  moderation  both  of 
noise  and  speed.  There  were  foot  trav- 
ellers, too,  in  abundance;  and  as  I  saw 
them  walking  along  under  the  shade  of 
the  long  line  of  trees  that  bordered  the 
road,  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  this 
thoughtful  provision  for  the  protection  of 
the  traveller  was  the  most  pleasing  indi- 
cation I  had  yet  seen  of  a  country  long 
settled. 

While  I  was  thus  looking  and  won- 


656 


Tlie  Home  of  Lafayette. 


[December, 


dering,  and  drawing  perhaps  the  hasty 
comparisons  of  a  novice,  I  saw  a  gen- 
tleman coming  towards  us  with  a  firm, 
quick  step,  his  blue  surtout  buttoned  tight 
over  his  breast,  a  hght  walking-stick  in 
his  hand,  and  with  the  abstracted  air  of 
a  man  who  saw  something  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  bodily  eye.  It  was  Cooper, 
just  returning  from  a  visit  to  the  Gener- 
al, and  dreaming  perhaps  of  his  forest- 
paths  or  the  ocean.  His  carriage  with 
his  family  was  coming  slowly  on  behind. 
A  day  earlier  and  I  should  have  found 
them  all  at  La  Grange. 

It  was  evident  that  the  good  people  of 
Rosay  were  accustomed  to  the  sight  of 
travellers  on  their  way  to  La  Grange 
with  a  very  small  stock  of  French ;  for 
I  had  hardly  named  the  place,  when  a 
brisk  little  fellow,  announcing  himself  as 
the  guide  of  all  the  Messieurs  Ameri- 
cains,  swung  my  portmanteau  upon  his 
back  and  set  out  before  me  at  the  regular 
jog-trot  of  a  well-trained  porter.  The 
distance  was  but  a  mile,  the  country  lev- 
el, and  we  soon  came  in  sight  of  the  cas- 
tle. Castle,  indeed,  it  was,  with  its  point- 
ed Norman  towers,  its  massive  walls,  and 
broad  moat,  —  memorials  of  other  days, 
—  and  already  gray  with  age  before  the 
first  roof-tree  was  laid  in  the  land  which 
its  owner  had  helped  to  build  up  to  a 
great  nation.  On  a  hill-side  its  appear- 
ance would  have  been  grand.  As  it  was, 
it  was  impressive,  and  particularly  as  first 
seen  from  the  road.  The  portcullis  was 
gone,  but  the  arched  gateway  still  re- 
mained, flanked  by  towers  that  looked 
sombre  and  stern,  even  amidst  the  deep 
green  of  the  ivy  which  covered  the  left 
tower  almost  to  the  battlements.  I  was 
afterwards  told  that  the  ivy  itself  had  a 
special  significance,— having  been  plant- 
ed by  Charles  Fox,  during  a  visit  to  La 
Grange  not  long  before  his  death.  And 
Fox,  it  will  be  remembered,  had  exert- 
ed all  his  eloquence  to  induce  the  Eng- 
lish Government  to  demand  the  liberation 
of  Lafayette  from  Olmiitz, — an  act  which 
called  down  upon  him  at  the  time  the  bit- 
terest invectives  of  party  rhetoric,  but 
which  the  historian  of  England  now  re- 


cords as  a  bright  page  in  the  fife  of  one 
of  her  greatest  men.  Ah,  how  different 
would  our  record  be,  if  we  could  always 
follow  our  instinct  of  immortality,  and  in 
all  our  actions  look  thoughtfully  forward 
to  the  judgment  of  the  future  ! 

Passing  under  the  massive  arch,  I  found 
myself  in  the  castle  court.  Three  sides 
of  the  edifice  were  still  standing,  dark- 
ened, indeed,  and  distained  by  the  winds 
and  rains  of  centuries,  but  with  an  air 
of  modern  comfort  and  neatness  about 
the  doors  and  windows  that  seemed  more 
in  keeping  than  the  moat  and  towers 
with  the  habits  of  the  present  day.  The 
other  curtain  had  been  thrown  down 
years  before, — how  or  why  nobody  could 
tell  me,  but  not  improbably  in  some  of 
the  domestic  wars  which  fill  and  defile 
the  annals  of  mediseval  Europe.  In  those 
days  the  loss  of  it  must  have  been  a  seri- 
ous one ;  but  for  the  modern  occupant 
it  was  a  real  gain,— letting  in  the  air  and 
sunlight,  and  opening  a  pleasant  view  of 
green  plantations  from  every  window  of 
the  court. 

A  servant  met  me  at  the  main  en- 
trance, a  broad  stairway  directly  oppo- 
site the  gate,  and,  taking  my  card,  led 
me  up  to  a  spacious  hall,  where  he  asked 
me  to  wait  while  he  went  to  announce 
my  arrival  to  the  General.  The  hall 
was  a  large  oblong  room,  plainly,  but 
neatly  furnished,  with  a  piano  at  one 
end,  its  tessellated  oaken  floor  highly 
polished,  and  communicating  by  folding- 
doors  with  an  inner  room,  in  which  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  bright  wood-fire, 
and  a  portrait  of  Bailly  over  the  man- 
tel. On  the  wall,  to  the  left  of  the  fold- 
ing-doors, was  suspended  an  American 
flag  with  its  blue  field  of  stars  and  its 
red  and  white  stripes  looking  down  upon 
me  in  a  way  that  made  my  American 
veins  tingle. 

But  I  had  barely  time  to  look  around 
me  before  I  heard  a  heavy  step  on  the 
stairs,  and  the  next  moment  the  General 
entered.  This  time  he  gave  me  a  French 
greeting,  pressing  me  in  his  arms  and 
kissing  me  on  both  cheeks.  "  We  were 
expecting  you,"  said  he,  "  and  you  are 


1861.] 


The  Home  of  Lafayette, 


657 


in  good  season  for  dinner.  Let  me  show 
you  your  room." 

If  I  had  had  my  choice  of  all  the  rooms 
in  the  castle,  I  should  have  chosen  the 
very  one  that  had  been  assigned  me.  It 
•was  on  the  first — not  the  ground — floor, 
at  the  end  of  a  long  vaulted  gallery  and 
in  a  tower.  There  was  a  deep  alcove 
from  the  bed, —  a  window  looking  down 
upon  the  calm  waters  of  the  moat,  and 
giving  glimpses,  through  the  trees,  of 
fields  and  woods  beyond,  —  a  fireplace 
with  a  cheerful  fire,  which  had  evident- 
ly been  kindled  the  moment  my  arrival 
was  known,  —  the  tessellated  floor  with 
its  waxen  gloss, — and  the  usual  furniture 
of  a  French  bed-room,  a  good  table  and 
comfortable  chairs.  A  sugar-bowl  filled 
with  sparkling  beet  sugar,  and  a  decan- 
ter of  fresh  water,  on  the  mantel-piece, 
would  have  shown  me,  if  there  had  been 
nothing  else  to  show  it,  that  I  was  in 
France.  The  General  looked  round  the 
room  to  make  sure  that  all  was  comfort- 
ably arranged  for  me,  and  then  renew- 
ing his  welcome,  and  telling  me  that  the 
castle -bell  would  ring  for  dinner  in 
about  half  an  hour,  left  me  to  take  pos- 
session of  my  quarters  and  change  my 
dress. 

If  I  had  not  been  afraid  of  getting  be- 
lated, I  should  have  sat  down  awhile  to 
collect  my  thoughts  and  endeavor  to 
realize  where  I  was.  But  as  it  was,  I 
could  do  little  more  than  unpack  my 
trunk,  arrange  my  books  and  writing- 
materials  on  the  table,  and  change  my 
dusty  clothes,  before  the  bell  rang.  Oh, 
how  that  bell  sounded  through  the  long 
corridor  from  its  watch-tower  over  the 
gateway !  And  how  I  shrank  back  when 
I  found  myself  on  the  threshold  of  the 
hall  and  saw  the  inner  room  full !  The 
General  must  have  divined  my  feelings; 
for,  the  moment  he  saw  me,  he  came  for- 
ward to  meet  me,  and,  taking  me  by  the 
arm,  presented  me  to  all  the  elders  of  the 
party  in  turn.  He  apparently  supposed, 
that,  with  the  start  I  had  had  in  the  Rue 
d'Anjou,  I  should  make  my  way  among 
the  younger  ones  myself 

It  was  a  family  circle  covering  three 


generations :  the  General,  his  son  and 
daughter-in-law  and  two  daughters,  and 
ten  grandchildren,  —  among  whom  I  was 
glad  to  see  some  of  both  sexes  sufficient- 
ly near  my  own  age  to  open  a  very 
pleasant  prospect  for  me  whenever  I 
should  have  learnt  French  enough  to 
feel  at  home  among  them.  Nor  was  the 
domestic  character  of  the  group  broken 
by  the  presence  of  a  son  of  Casimir 
Perier,  who  was  soon  to  marry  George 
Lafayette's  eldest  daughter,  the  Count 
de  Segur,  the  General's  uncle,  though 
but  a  month  or  two  his  elder,  and  the 
Count  de  Tracy,  father  of  Madame 
George  de  Lafayette,  and  founder  of 
the  French  school  of  Ideology,  compan- 
ions, both  of  them,  of  the  General's  youth, 
and,  at  this  serene  close  of  a  life  of 
strange  vicissitudes  and  bitter  trials,  still 
his  friends.  Levasseur,  his  secretary,  who 
had  accompanied  him  in  his  visit  to  the 
United  States,  with  his  German  wife, 
a  young  gentleman  whose  name  I  have 
forgotten,  but  who  was  the  private  tutor 
of  young  Jules  de  Lasteyrie,  and  Major 
Frye,  an  English  half- pay  officer,  of 
whom  I  shall  have  a  good  deal  more 
to  say  by-and-by,  completed  the  circle. 
We  formed  a  long  procession  to  the  din- 
ing-room, and  I  shall  never  forget  how 
awkAvard  I  felt  on  finding  myself  walk- 
ing, with  the  General's  arm  in  mine,  at 
the  head  of  it.  There  was  a  certain  air 
of  high  breeding,  of  respect  for  others 
founded  on  self-respect,  and  a  perfect 
familiarity  with  all  the  forms  of  society, 
which  relieved  me  from  much  of  my  em- 
barrassment by  making  me  feel  instinc- 
tively that  nobody  would  take  unpleas- 
ant notice  of  it.  Still,  that  first  dinner 
was  a  trial  to  my  nerves,  though  I  do 
not  remember  that  the  trial  interfered 
with  my  appetite.  It  was  served,  of 
course,  in  courses,  beginning  with  soup 
and  ending  with  fruit.  Most  of  the  dish- 
es, as  I  afterwards  learned,  were  the  prod- 
uce of  the  farm,  and  they  certainly  bore 
good  witness  to  the  farmer's  judgment 
and  skill.  The  General  was  a  hearty 
eater,  as  most  Frenchmen  are  ;  but  he 
loved  to  season  his  food  with  conversa- 


658 


The  Home  of  Lafayette. 


[December, 


tlon,  and,  much  as  lie  relished  his  meals, 
he  seemed  to  relish  the  pleasant  talk  be- 
tween the  courses  still  more.  As  I  was 
unable  to  follow  the  conversation  of  the 
table,  I  came  in  for  a  large  share  of  the 
'  General's  attention,  "who  would  turn  to 
me  every  now  and  then  with  something 
pleasant  to  say.  He  had  had  the  con- 
sideration, too,  to  place  one  of  the  young 
ladies  next  to  me,  directly  on  my  right, 
as  I  was  on  his ;  and  her  English,  though 
not  perfectly  fluent,  was  fluent  enough  to 
enable  us  to  keep  up  a  lively  interlude. 

On  returning  to  the  drawing-room,  the 
General  led  me  up  to  a  portrait  of  my 
grandfather,  and  indulged  himself  for  a 
while  in  endeavoring  to  trace  a  resem- 
blance between  us.  I  say  indulged ;  for 
he  often,  down  to  the  last  time  that  I 
ever  saw  him,  came  back  to  this  subject, 
and  seemed  to  take  a  peculiar  pleasure 
in  it.  He  had  been  warmly  attached 
to  General  Greene,  and  the  attachment 
which  both  of  them  bore  to  Washington 
served  to  strengthen  their  attachment  to 
each  other.  This  portrait,  a  copy  from 
Peale,  had  been  one  of  the  fruits  of  his 
last  visit  to  the  United  States,  and  hung, 
with  those  of  some  other  personal  friends, 
—  great  men  all  of  them,  —  on  the  draw- 
ing-room wall.  His  Washington  was  a 
bronze  from  Houdon's  bust,  and  stood 
opposite  the  mantel-piece  on  a  marble 
pedestal.  Conversation  and  music  filled 
up  the  rest  of  the  evening,  and  before  I 
withdrew  for  the  night  it  had  been  ar- 
ranged that  I  should  begin  my  French 
the  next  morning,  with  one  of  the  young 
ladies  for  teacher.  And  thus  ended  my 
first  day  at  La  Grange. 

EVERY -DAY  LIFE   AT  LA   GRANGE. 

The  daily  life  at  La  Grange  was  ne- 
cessarily systematic.  The  General's  po- 
sition compelled  him  to  see  a  great  deal 
of  company  and  exposed  him  to  con- 
stant interruptions.  He  kept  a  kind  of 
open  table,  at  which  part  of  the  faces 
seemed  to  be  changing  every  day.  Then 
there  were  his  own  children,  with  claims 
upon  his  attention  which  he  was  not  dis- 


posed to  deny,  and  a  large  family  of 
grandchildren  to  educate,  upon  all  of 
whose  minds  he  wished  to  leave  personal 
impressions  of  their  intercourse  with  him 
which  should  make  them  feel  how  much 
he  loved  and  cherished  them  all.  For- 
tunately, the  size  of  the  castle  made  it 
easy  to  keep  the  family  rooms  distant 
from  the  rooms  of  the  guests  ;  and  a  judi- 
cious division  of  time  enabled  him  to  pre- 
serve a  degree  of  freedom  in  the  midst 
of  constraint,  which,  though  the  rule  in 
Europe,  American  hosts  in  town  or  coun- 
try have  very  little  conception  of. 

Every  one  rose  at  his  own  hour,  and 
was  master  of  his  time  till  eleven.  If  he 
wanted  an  early  breakfast,  he  could  have 
a  cup  of  cofiee  or  chocolate  or  milk  in 
his  room  for  the  asking.  But  the  family 
breakfast -hour  was  at  eleven,  a  true 
French  breakfast,  and  attended  with  all 
the  forms  of  dinner  except  in  dress.  The 
castle-bell  was  rung ;  the  household  col- 
lected in  the  pfrlor;  and  all  descend- 
ed in  one  order  to  the  dining-room.  It 
was  pleasant  to  see  this  morning  gath- 
ering. The  General  was  almost  always 
among  the  first  to  come  in  and  take  his 
stand  by  the  fireplace,  with  a  cordial 
greeting  for  each  guest  in  turn.  As  his 
grandchildren  entered,  they  went  up  to 
offer  their  morning  salutations  to  him 
first  of  all,  and  there  was  the  paternal 
kiss  on  the  forehead  and  a  pleasant  word 
for  each.  His  son  and  daughters  gen- 
erally saw  him  in  his  own  room  before 
they  came  down. 

Breakfast  was  a  cheerful  meal,  served 
in  courses  like  dinner,  and  seasoned  with 
conversation,  in  which  every  one  was  free 
to  take  a  part  or  listen,  as  he  felt  dispos- 
ed. There  was  no  hurry,  no  confusion 
about  it;  all  sat  down  and  rose  at  the 
same  time  ;  and  as  every  one  that  worked 
at  all  had  evidently  done  part  of  his  day's 
work  before  he  came  to  table,  all  came 
with  good  appetites.  Then  came  the 
family  walk,  all  starting  out  in  a  group, 
but  always  sure  to  break  up  into  smaller 
groups  as  they  went  on  :  the  natural  law 
of  aflUnities  never  failing  to  make  itself 
felt,  and  they  who  found  most  pleasure 


1861.] 


The  Home  of  Lafayette. 


659 


in  each  other's  society  generally  ending 
their  walk  together.  Sometimes  the  Gen- 
eral would  come  a  little  way  with  us,  but 
soon  turned  off  to  the  farm,  or  dropped  be- 
hind and  went  back  to  his  books  and  let- 
ters. An  hour  in  the  grounds  passed  quick- 
ly, —  too  quickly,  I  often  used  to  think ; 
and  then,  unless,  as  occasionally  happen- 
ed, there  was  an  excursion  on  foot  which 
all  were  to  take  part  in,  the  members  of 
the  family  withdrew  to  their  own  apart- 
ments, and  the  guests  were  left  free  to 
fill  up  the  time  till  dinner  as  they  chose. 
With  books,  papers,  and  visits  from  room 
to  room,  or  strolls  about  the  grounds,  the 
hours  never  lagged;  and  much  as  one 
day  seemed  like  another,  there  was  al- 
ways something  of  its  own  to  remember 
it  by.  Of  course,  this  regularity  was  not 
the  result  of  chance.  Behind  the  visible 
curtain  was  the  invisible  spirit  guiding 
and  directing  all.  It  was  no  easy  task 
to  provide  abundantly,  and  yet  judicious- 
ly, for  a  family  always  large,  but  which 
might  at  any  moment  be  almost  doubled 
without  an  hour's  notice.  The  farm,  as  I 
have  already  said,  furnished  a  full  propor- 
tion of  the  daily  supplies,  and  the  Gen- 
eral was  the  farmer.  But  the  daily  task 
of  distribution  and  arrangement  fell  to 
the  young  ladies,  each  of  whom  took  her 
week  of  housekeeping  in  turn.  The 
very  first  morning  I  was  admitted  be- 
hind the  scenes.  "  If  you  want  anything 
before  breakfast,'*  said  one  of  the  young 
ladies,  as  the  evening  circle  was  breaking 
up,  "  come  down  into  the  butler's  room 
and  get  it."  And  to  the  butler's  room  I 
went;  and  there,  in  a  calico  fitted  as 
neatly  as  the  rich  silk  of  the  evening  be- 
fore, with  no  papers  in  her  hair,  with 
nothing  but  a  richer  glow  to  distinguish 
the  morning  from  the  evening  face,  with 
laughing  eyes  and  busy  hands,  issuing 
orders  and  inspecting  dishes,  stood  the 
very  girl  with  whom  I  was  to  begin  at 
nine  my  initiation  into  the  mysteries  of 
French.  There  must  have  been  some- 
thing  peculiar  in  the  grass  which  the 
cows  fed  on  at  La  Grange ;  for  I  used  to 
go  regularly  every  morning  for  my  cup 
of  milk,  and  it  never  disagreed  with  me. 


MY  FRENCH. 

Oh,  that  lesson  of  French !  Two  seats 
at  the  snug  little  writing-table,  and  only 
one  witness  of  my  blunders ;  for  nobody 
ever  thought  of  coming  into  the  drawing- 
room  before  the  breakfast-bell.  Unfortu- 
nately for  me,  OUendorfi"  had  not  yet  pub- 
lished his  thefts  from  Manesca ;  and  in- 
stead of  that  brisk  little  war  of  question 
and  answer,  which  loosens  the  tongue  so 
readily  to  strange  sounds  and  forms  the 
memory  so  promptly  to  the  combinations 
of  a  new  idiom,  I  had  to  struggle  on 
through  the  scanty  rules  and  multitudi- 
nous exceptions  of  grammar,  and  pick 
my  way  with  the  help  of  a  dictionary 
through  the  harmonious  sentences  of 
"  Telemaque."  And  never  had  sentences 
seemed  so  harmonious  to  my  ears  before ; 
and  never,  I  fear,  before  had  my  young 
friend's  patience  been  so  sorely  tried,  or 
her  love  of  fun  put  under  so  unnatural  a 
restraint.  "  Calypso  ne  pouvait  se  conso- 
ler" over  and  over  and  over  again,  her 
rosy  lips  moving  slowly  in  order  to  give 
distinctness  to  every  articulation,  and  her 
blue  eyes  fairly  dancing  with  repressed 
laughter  at  my  awkward  imitation.  If  my 
teacher's  patience  could  have  given  me 
a  good  pronunciation,  mine  would  have 
been  perfect.  Day  after  day  she  came 
back  to  her  task,  and  ever  as  the  clock 
told  nine  would  meet  me  at  the  door  with 
the  same  genial  smile. 

Nearly  twenty  years  afterwards  I  found 
myself  once  more  in  Paris,  and  at  a  large 
party  at  the  house  of  the  American  Min- 
ister, the  late  Mr.  King.  As  I  was  wan- 
dering through  the  rooms,  looking  at 
group  after  group  of  unknown  faces,  my 
eye  fell  upon  one  that  I  should  have  rec- 
ognized at  once  as  that  of  my  first  teacher 
of  French,  if  it  had  not  seemed  to  me 
impossible  that  twenty  years  could  have 
passed  over  it  so  lightly. 

"  Who  is  that  lady  ?  *'  I  asked  of  a  gen- 
tleman near  me,  whom  it  was  impossible 
not  to  set  down  at  once  for  an  Ameri- 
can. 

"  Why,  that  is  Madame  de ,  a 

grand-daughter  of  General  Lafayette." 


660 


The  Home  of  Lafayette 


[December, 


I  can  hardly  account,  at  this  quiet  mo- 
ment, for  the  sudden  impulse  that  seized 
me  ;  but  resist  it  I  could  not ;  and  walk- 
ing directly  up  to  her,  I  made  my  lowest 
bow,  and,  without  giving  her  time  to  look 
me  well  in  the  face,  repeated,  with  all  the 
gravity  I  could  command,  "  Calypso  ne 
pouvait  se  consoler  du  depart  d'Ulysse." 

"  O  !  Monsieur  Greene,"  said  she,  hold- 
ing out  both  her  hands,  "it  must  be 
you!" 


THE   GENERAL. 

General  Lafayette  had  just  en- 
tered his  seventy-first  year.  In  his  child- 
hood he  had  been  troubled  by  a  weak- 
ness of  the  chest  which  gave  his  friends 
some  anxiety.  But  his  constitution  was 
naturally  good,  and  air,  exercise,  and  ex- 
posure gradually  wore  away  every  trace 
of  his  original  debility.  In  person  he 
was  tall  and  strongly  built,  with  broad 
shoulders,  large  limbs,  and  a  general  air 
of  strength,  which  was  rather  increased 
than  diminished  by  an  evident  tending 
towards  corpulency.  While  still  a  young 
man,  his  right  leg  —  the  same,  I  believe, 
that  had  been  wounded  in  rallying  our 
broken  troops  at  the  Brandy  wine  —  was 
fractured  by  a  fall  on  the  ice,  leaving  him 
lame  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  This  did 
not  prevent  him,  however,  from  walking 
about  his  farm,  though  it  cut  him  off  from 
the  use  of  the  saddle,  and  gave  a  halt  to 
his  gait,  which  but  for  his  dignity  of  car- 
riage would  have  approached  to  awk- 
wardness. Indeed,  he  had  more  dignity 
of  bearing  than  any  man  I  ever  saw. 
And  it  was  not  merely  the  dignity  of 
self-possession,  which  early  familiarity 
with  society  and  early  habits  of  com- 
mand may  give  even  to  an  ordinary 
man,  but  that  elevation  of  manner  which 
springs  from  an  habitual  elevation  of 
thought,  bearing  witness  to  the  purity 
of  its  source,  as  a  clear  eye  and  ruddy 
cheek  bear  witness  to  the  purity  of  the 
air  you  daily  breathe.  In  some  respects 
he  was  the  mercurial  Frenchman  to  the 
last  day  of  his  life ;  yet  his  general  bear- 
ing, that  in  which  he  comes  oftenest  to 


my  memory,  was  of  calm  earnestness, 
tempered  and  mellowed  by  quick  sym- 
pathies. 

His  method  of  life  was  very  regular, — 
the  regularity  of  thirty  years  of  compara- 
tive retirement,  following  close  upon  fif- 
teen years  of  active  public  life,  begun  at 
twenty  in  the  army  of  Washington,  and 
ending  in  a  Prussian  and  Austrian  dun- 
geon at  thirty-five. 

His  private  apartments  consisted  of 
two  rooms  on  the  second  floor.  The  first 
was  his  bed-room,  a  cheerful,  though  not 
a  large  room,  nearly  square,  with  a  com- 
fortable fireplace,  and  a  window  looking 
out  upon  the  lawn  and  woods  behind  the 
castle.  Just  outside  of  the  bed-room,  and 
the  first  object  that  struck  your  eye  on 
approaching  it  from  the  gallery,  was  a  pic- 
ture by  one  of  his  daughters,  represent- 
ing the  burly  turnkey  of  Olmiitz  in  the 
act  of  unlocking  his  dungeon-door.  "  It 
is  a  good  likeness,"  said  the  General  to 
me,  the  first  time  that  he  took  me  to  his 
rooms,  —  "a  very  good  likeness.  I  re- 
member the  features  well."  From  the 
bed-room  a  door  opened  into  a  large  tur- 
ret-room, well  lighted  and  airy,  and  which, 
taking  its  shape  from  the  tower  in  which 
it  stood,  was  almost  a  perfect  circle.  This 
was  the  General's  library.  The  books 
were  arranged  in  open  cases,  filling  the 
walls  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  with  a 
neatness  and  order  which  revealed  an 
artistic  appreciation  of  their  effect.  It 
was  lighted  by  two  windows,  one  open- 
ing on  the  lawn,  the  other  on  the  farm- 
yards, and  both,  from  the  thickness  of 
the  walls,  looking  like  deep  recesses.  In 
the  window  that  looked  upon  the  farm- 
yards was  the  General's  writing-table 
and  seat.  A  spy-glass  lay  within  reach, 
enabling  him  to  overlook  the  yard-work 
without  rising  from  his  chair;  and  on 
the  table  were  his  farm-books,  with  the 
record  of  crops  and  improvements  enter- 
ed in  regular  order  with  his  own  hand. 
Charles  Sumner,  who  visited  La  Grange 
last  summer,  tells  me  that  they  He  there 
still. 

The  library  was  miscellaneous,  many 
of  the  books  being  presentation -copies, 


1861.] 


The  Home  of  Lafayette. 


661 


and  most  of  tliem  neatly  bound.  Its  pre- 
dominant character,  as  nearly  as  I  can 
recollect,  was  historical ;  the  history  in 
which  he  had  borne  so  important  a  part 
naturally  coming  in  for  a  full  share. 
Though  not  a  scholar  from  choice,  Gen- 
eral Lafayette  loved  books,  and  was  well 
read.  His  Latin  had  stood  him  in  stead 
at  Olmiitz  for  his  brief  communication 
with  his  surgeon ;  and  I  have  a  distinct 
impression,  though  I  cannot  vouch  for 
the  correctness  of  it,  that  he  never  drop- 
ped it  altogether.  His  associations  were 
too  much  among  men  of  thought  as  well 
as  men  of  action,  and  the  responsibilities 
that  weighed  upon  him  were  too  grave, 
to  permit  so  conscientious  a  man  to  neg- 
lect the  aid  of  books.  Of  the  historians 
of  our  Revolution,  he  preferred  Ramsay, 
who  had,  as  he  said,  put  everything  into 
his  two  volumes,  and  abridged  as  well  as 
Eutropius.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  pres- 
ence of  something  of  the  same  quality 
that  led  him  to  give  the  preference, 
among  the  numerous  histories  of  the 
French  Revolution,  to  Mignet,  though,  in 
putting  him  into  my  hands,  he  cautioned 
me  against  that  dangerous  spirit  of  fatal- 
ism, which,  making  man  the  unconscious 
instrument  of  an  irresistible  necessity, 
leaves  him  no  real  responsibility  for  evil 
or  for  good. 

It  was  in  this  room  that  he  passed  the 
greater  part  of  the  time  that  was  not  giv- 
en to  his  farm  or  his  guests.  I  never 
entered  it  without  finding  him  at  his 
desk,  with  his  pen  or  a  book  in  hand. 
His  correspondence  was  so  extensive  that 
he  was  always  obliged  to  keep  a  secre- 
tary, though  a  large  portion  of  his  letters 
were  written  with  his  own  hand.  He 
wrote  rapidly  in  fact,  though  not  rapidly 
to  the  eye ;  and  you  were  surprised,  in 
seeing  his  hand  move  over  the  paper, 
to  find  how  soon  it  reached  the  bottom 
of  the  sheet,  and  how  closely  it  filled  it 
up.  His  handwriting  was  clear  and  dis- 
tinct, neither  decidedly  French  nor  de- 
cidedly English,  —  like  all  his  habits  and 
opinions,  formed  early  and  never  changed. 
I  have  letters  of  his  to  my  grandfather, 
written  during  the  Revolution,  and  letters 


of  his  to  myself,  written  fifty  years  after 
it,  in  which  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
trace  the  difference  between  the  old  man 
and  the  young  one.  English  he  seemed 
to  write  as  readily  as  French,  although 
a  strong  Gallicism  would  every  now  and 
then  slip  from  his  pen,  as  it  slipped  from 
his  tongue.  "  I  had  to  learn  in  a  hur- 
ry," said  he,  giving  me  one  day  the  his- 
tory of  his  English  studies.  "I  began 
on  my  passage  out,  as  soon  as  I  got  over 
my  sea-sickness,  and  picked  up  the  rest 
in  camp.  I  was  compelled  to  write  and 
talk,  and  so  I  learned  to  write  and  talk. 
The  officers  were  very  kind  and  never 
laughed  at  me.  After  the  peace,  Colonel 
Tarleton  came  over  to  Paris,  and  was 
presented  to  the  King  one  day  when  I 
happened  to  be  at  Court.  The  King  ask- 
ed him  how  I  spoke  English.  '  I  cannot 
say  how  he  speaks  it,  Sire,'  said  the  Col- 
onel, '  but  I  occasionally  had  the  good- 
luck  to  pick  up  some  of  his  letters  that 
were  going  the  wrong  way,  and  I  can 
assure  your  Majesty  that  they  were  very 
well  written.' " 

His  valet  was  an  old  soldier,  who  had 
served  through  the  Peninsular  War,  and 
who  moved  about  with  the  orderly  gait 
and  quiet  air  of  a  man  who  had  passed 
his  heyday  under  the  forming  influences 
of  camp  discipline.  He  was  a  most  re- 
spectable-looking man,  as  well  as  a  most 
respectful  servant ;  and  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  see  him  busying  himself  about  the 
General  at  his  morning  toilet,  and  watch 
his  dehcate  handling  of  the  lather-brush 
and  razor,  without  feeling,  that,  however 
true  the  old  proverb  may  have  been  in 
other  cases,  Bastien's  master  was  a  hero 
to  him. 

The  General's  dress  was  always  sim- 
ple, though  studiously  neat.  His  repub- 
licanism was  of  the  school  of  Washington, 
and  would  have  shrunk  from  a  public 
display  of  a  bare  neck  and  shirt-sleeves. 
Blue  was  his  usual  winter  color ;  a  frock- 
coat  in  the  morning,  and  a  dress-coat  for 
dinner,  and  both  near  enough  to  the  pre- 
vailing fashion  to  escape  remark.  He 
had  begun  serious  life  too  early  to  have 
ever  been  anything  of  a  dandy,  even  if 


662 


The  Home  of  Lafayette, 


[December, 


Nature  had  seen  fit  to  contradict  her- 
self so  far  as  to  have  intended  him  for 
one. 

Jewelry  I  never  saw  him  wear;  but 
there  was  one  little  compartment  in  his 
library  filled  with  what  in  a  certain  sense 
might  be  called  jewelry,  and  of  a  kind 
that  he  had  good  reason  to  be  proud  of 
In  one  of  the  drawers  was  a  sword  made 
out  of  a  key  of  the  Bastile,  and  present- 
ed to  him  by  the  city  of  Paris.  The 
other  key  he  sent  to  Washington.  When 
he  was  a  young  man  the  Bastile  was  a 
reality,  and  those  keys  still  plied  their 
dismal  work  at  the  bidding  of  a  power 
as  insensible  to  the  suffering  it  caused 
as  the  steel  of  which  they  were  made. 
Of  the  hundreds  who  with  sinking  hearts 
had  heard  them  turn  in  their  massive 
wards,  how  few  had  ever  come  back  to 
tell  the  tale  of  their  misery !  Lafayette 
himself,  but  for  the  quick  wit  of  a  ser- 
vant-maid, might  have  passed  there  some 
of^he  youthful  days  that  he  passed  at  the 
side  of  Washington,  and  gazed  dimly,  as 
at  a  dream,  in  the  Bastile,  at  what  he 
could  look  back  upon  as  a  proud  reality 
in  Olmlitz.  Another  of  his  relics  was  a 
civic  crown,  oak-leaf  wrought  in  gold,  the 
gift  of  the  city  of  Lyons  ;  but  this  belong- 
ed to  a  later  period,  his  last  visit  to  Au- 
vergne,  the  summer  before  the  Revolu- 
tion of  July,  and  which  called  forth  as 
enthusiastic  a  display  of  popular  affec- 
tion as  that  which  had  greeted  his  last 
visit  to  America.  But  the  one  which  he 
seemed  to  prize  most  was  a  very  plain 
pair  of  eye-glasses,  in  a  simple  horn  case, 
if  my  memory  does  not  deceive  me,  but 
which,  in  his  estimation,  neither  gold  nor 
jewels  could  have  replaced,  for  they  had 
once  belonged  to  Washington.  "  He  gave 
them  to  me,"  said  the  General,  "  on  my 
last  visit  to  Mount  Vernon." 

He  was  an  early  riser,  and  his  work 
began  the  moment  he  left  his  pillow. 
First  came  his  letters,  always  a  heavy 
drain  upon  his  time  ;  for  he  had  been  so 
long  a  public  man  that  everybody  felt 
free  to  consult  him,  and  everybody  that 
consulted  him  was  sure  of  a  polite  an- 
swer.     Then   his  personal   friends  had 


their  claims,  some  of  them  running  back 
to  youth,  some  the  gradual  accession  of 
later  years,  and  all  of  them  cherished  with 
that  genial  and  confiding  expansiveness 
which  was  the  great  charm  of  his  private 
life,  and  the  chief  source,  when  he  did 
err,  of  his  errors  as  a  public  man.  Like 
all  the  men  of  Washington's  school,  he 
was  systematically  industrious ;  and  by 
dint  of  system  and  industry  his  immense 
correspondence  was  seldom  allowed  to 
get  the  start  of  him.  Important  letters 
were  answered  as  they  came,  and  minutes 
or  copies  of  the  answers  kept  for  refer- 
ence. He  seemed  to  love  his  pen,  and 
to  write  without  effort,  —  never  aiming, 
it  is  true,  at  the  higher  graces  of  style, 
somewhat  diffuse,  too,  both  in  French  and 
in  English,  but  easy,  natural,  idiomatic, 
and  lucid,  with  the  distinctness  of  clear 
conceptions  rather  than  the  precision  of 
vigorous  conceptions,  and  a  warmth  which 
in  his  public  letters  sometimes  rose,  to 
eloquence,  and  in  his  private  letters  of- 
ten made  you  feel  as  if  you  were  listen- 
ing instead  of  reading. 

He  was  fond  of  anecdote,  and  told  his 
stories  with  the  fluency  of  a  man  accus- 
tomed to  public  speaking,  and  the  ani- 
mation and  point  of  a  man  accustomed 
to  the  society  of  men  of  wit  as  well  as  of 
men  of  action.  His  recollections  were 
wonderfully  distinct,  and  it  always  gave 
me  a  peculiar  thrill  to  hear  him  talk  about 
the  great  men  he  had  lived  and  acted 
with  in  both  hemispheres,  as  familiarly 
as  if  he  had  parted  from  them  only  an 
hour  before.  It  was  bringing  history 
very  close  to  me,  and  peopling  it  with 
living  beings,  —  beings  of  flesh  and  blood, 
who  ate  and  drank  and  slept  and  wore 
clothes  as  we  do ;  for  here  was  one  of 
them,  the  friend  and  companion  of  the 
greatest  among  them  all,  whom  I  had 
known  through  books,  as  I  knew  them 
long  before  I  knew  him  in  actual  life, 
and  every  one  of  whose  words  and  ges- 
tures seemed  to  give  me  a  clearer  con- 
ception of  what  they,  too,  must  have  been. 

Still  he  never  appeared  to  live  in  the 
recollections  of  his  youth,  as  most  old 
men  do.     His  life  was  too  active  a  one 


1861.] 


A  Field  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons. 


663 


for  this,  and  the  great  principles  he  had 
consecrated  it  to  were  too  far-reaching 
and  comprehensive,  too  full  of  living,  ac- 
tual interest,  too  fresh  and  vigorous  in 
their  vitality,  to  allow  a  man  of  his  san- 
guine and  active  temperament  to  forget 
himself  in  the  past  when  there  was  so 
much  to  do  in  the  present.  This  gave  a 
peculiar  charm  to  his  conversation ;  for, 
no  matter  what  the  subject  might  be,  he 
always  talked  like  a  man  who  believed 
what  he  said,  and  whose  faith,  a  living 
principle  of  thought  and  action,  was  con- 
stantly kept  in  a  genial  glow  by  the  quick- 
ness and  depth  of  his  sympathies.  His 
smile  told  this ;  for  it  was  full  of  sweet- 
ness and  gentleness,  though  with  a  dash 
of  earnestness  about  it,  an  under-current 
of  serious  thought,  that  made  you  feel  as 
if  you  wanted  to  look  behind  it,  and  re- 
minded you,  at  times,  of  a  landscape  at 
sunset,  when  there  is  just  light  enough  to 
show  you  how  many  things  there  are  in 
it  that  you  would  gladly  dwell  upon,  if 
the  day  were  only  a  little  longer. 


His  intercourse  with  his  children  was 
affectionate  and  confiding, — that  with  his 
daughters  touchingly  so.  They  had  shar- 
ed with  him  two  years  of  his  captivity  at 
Olmiitz,  and  he  seemed  never  to  look  at 
them  without  remembering  it.  They  had 
been  his  companions  when  he  most  need- 
ed companionship,  and  had  learnt  to  enter 
into  his  feelings  and  study  his  happiness 
at  an  age  when  most  girls  are  absorbed 
in  themselves.  The  effect  of  this  early 
discipline  was  never  lost.  They  had 
found  happiness  where  few  seek  it,  in 
self-denial  and  self-control,  a  religious 
cultivation  of  domestic  affections,  and  a 
thoughtful  development  of  their  minds  as 
sources  of  strength  and  enjoyment.  They 
were  happy,  —  happy  in  what  they  had 
done  and  in  what  they  were  doing, — en- 
tering cheerfully  upon  the  serene  even- 
ing of  lives  consecrated  to  duty,  with 
children  around  them  to  love  them  as 
they  had  loved  their  father  and  mother, 
and  that  father  still  with  them  to  tell 
them  that  they  had  never  deceived  him. 


A  FIELD  NIGHT  IN  THE  HOUSE   OF   COMMONS. 


To  an  intelligent  American  visiting 
London  for  the  first  time,  few  places  of 
interest  will  present  stronger  attractions 
than  the  House  of  Commons  during  an 
animated  debate.  Commencing  its  exist- 
ence with  the  first  crude  ideas  of  popular 
liberty  in  England,  steadily  advancing  in 
influence  and  importance  with  the  in- 
creasing wealth  and  intelligence  of  the 
middling  class,  until  it  came  to  hold  the 
purse  and  successfully  defend  the  rights 
of  the  people,  illustrated  for  many  gen- 
erations by  the  eloquence  and  the  states- 
manship of  the  kingdom,  and  to-day  wield- 
ing the  power  and  directing  the  destinies 
of  the  foremost  nation  in  the  world,  it  is 
not  strange  that  an  American,  speaking 
the  same  language,  and  proud  of  the  same 
ancestry,  should  visit  with  the  deepest 


interest  the  scene  of  so  many  and  so  im- 
portant transactions.  Especially  will  this 
be  the  case,  if  by  experience  or  obser- 
vation he  has  become  familiar  with  the 
course  of  proceedings  in  our  own  legisla- 
tive assemblies.  For,  although  the  Eng- 
lish House  of  Commons  is  the  parent  of 
all  similar  deliberative  bodies  in  the  civ- 
ilized world,  yet  its  rules  and  regulations 
are  in  many  respects  essentially  unique. 

Assuming  that  many  of  my  readers 
have  never  enjoyed  the  opportunity  of 
"  sitting  out  a  debate "  in  Parliament,  I 
have  ventured  to  hope  that  a  description 
of  some  of  the  distinctive  features  which 
are  peculiar  to  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  a  sketch  of  some  of  its  prominent 
members,  might  not  be  unwelcome. 

In  1840  the  corner-stone  of  the  New 


664 


A  Field  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons.         [December, 


Palace  of  Westminster  was  laid,  and  at 
the  commencement  of  the  session  of  1852 
the  first  official  occupation  of  the  House 
of  Commons  took  place.  The  House  of 
Peers  was  first  used  in  1847.  It  is  not 
consistent  with  the  object  of  this  article 
to  speak  of  the  dimensions  and  general 
appearance  of  this  magnificent  structure. 
It  is  suflicient  to  say,  that  in  its  architec- 
tural design,  in  its  interior  decorations, 
and  in  its  perfect  adaptation  to  the  pur- 
poses for  which  it  was  erected,  it  is  alike 
creditable  to  the  public  spirit  of  the  na- 
tion, and  to  the  improved  condition  of 
the  fine  and  useful  arts  in  the  present 
century. 

The  entrance  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons is  through  Westminster  Hall.  What 
wealth  of  historical  recollections  is  suggest- 
ed by  this  name  !  As,  however,  we  are 
dealing  with  the  present,  we  dare  not 
even  touch  upon  so  fruitful  a  theme,  but 
must  hasten  through  the  grand  old  hall, 
remarking  only  in  passing  that  it  is  sup- 
posed to  have  been  originally  built  in 
1097,  and  was  rebuilt  by  Richard  11.  in 
1398.  With  a  single  exception, —  the 
Hall  of  Justice  in  Padua,  —  it  is  the  lar- 
gest apartment  unsupported  by  pillars  in 
the  world.  Reluctantly  leaving  this  his- 
torical ground,  we  enter  St.  Stephen's 
Hall.  This  room,  rich  in  architectural 
ornaments  and  most  graceful  in  its  pro- 
portions, is  still  further  adorned  with 
statues  of  "men  who  rose  to  eminence 
by  the  eloquence  and  abilities  they  dis- 
played in  the  House  of  Commons."  Who 
will  dispute  their  claims  to  this  distinc- 
tion ?  The  names  selected  for  such  hon- 
orable immortality  are  Selden,  Hamp- 
den, Falkland,  Lord  Clarendon,  Lord 
Somers,  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  Lord  Chat- 
ham, Lord  Mansfield,  Burke,  Fox,  Pitt, 
and  Grattan. 

We  have  now  reached  the  Great  Cen- 
tral Hall,  out  of  which  open  two  corri- 
dors, one  of  which  leads  to  the  lobby 
of  the  House  of  Lords.  Passing  through 
the  other,  we  find  ourselves  in  the  lobby 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  Here  we 
must  pause  and  look  about  us.  We  are 
in  a  large  apartment  brilliantly  lighted 


and  richly  decorated.  As  we  stand  with 
our  backs  to  the  Great  Central  Hall,  the 
passage-way  to  the  right  conducts  to  the 
library  and  refreshment  rooms,  that  on 
the  left  is  the  private  entrance  of  the 
members  through  the  old  cloisters  of 
Stephen's,  that  in  front  is  the  main  en- 
trance to  the  floor  of  the  House.  In  the 
corner  on  our  right  is  a  small  table,  gar- 
nished with  all  the  materials  for  a  cold 
lunch  for  the  use  of  those  members  who 
have  no  time  for  a  more  substantial  meal 
in  the  dining-room.  Stimulants  of  vari- 
ous kinds  are  not  wanting ;  but  the  habits 
of  Englishmen  and  the  presence  of  vigi- 
lant policemen  prevent  any  abuse  of  this 
privilege.  The  refreshments  thus  provid- 
ed are  open  to  all,  and  in  this  qualified 
sense  I  may  say  that  I  have  lunched 
with  Disraeli,  Lord  John  Russell,  and 
Lord  Palmerston. 

But  the  hour  has  nearly  come  for  open- 
ing the  debate  ;  members  are  rapidly  ar- 
riving and  taking  their  seats,  and  we  shall 
do  well  to  decide  upon  the  best  mode  of 
gaining  admission  to  the  House.  There 
are  a  few  benches  on  the  floor  reserv- 
ed, as  of  right,  for  peers  and  their  sons, 
and,  by  courtesy,  for  gentlemen  introdu- 
ced by  them.  I  may  be  pardoned  for  pre- 
suming that  this  high  privilege  is  beyond 
our  reach.  Our  only  alternative,  then, 
is  the  galleries.  These  are,  the  Speaker's 
Gallery,  on  the  south  side  of  the  House, 
and  directly  opposite  the  Speaker's  chair, 
affording  room  for  between  twenty  and 
thirty,  and  the  Strangers'  Gallery,  be- 
hind this,  with  seats  for  about  sixty.  Vis- 
itors have  only  these  limited  accommoda- 
tions. The  arrangement  deprives  mem- 
bers of  all  temptation  to  "  speak  to  the 
galleries,"  and  is  consistent  with  the 
English  theory,  that  all  debates  in  the 
House  should  be  strictly  of  a  business 
character.  And  as  to  anything  like  ap- 
plause on  the  part  of  the  spectators,  what 
punishment  known  to  any  criminal  code 
among  civilized  nations  would  be  too  se- 
vere for  such  an  offence  ? 

The  American  Minister  (and  of  course 
every  representative  of  a  foreign  power) 
has  the  right  to  give  two  cards  of  admis- 


1861.] 


A  Field  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons. 


665 


sion,  entitling  tlie  bearer  of  each  to  a 
seat  in  the  Speaker's  Gallery.  But  these 
cards  admit  only  on  a  specified  even- 
ing, and  if  not  used  then,  are  worth- 
less. If  you  have  called  on  our  distin- 
guished representative  at  the  Court  of 
St.  James,  you  have  probably  discovered 
that  his  list  is  full  for  the  next  fortnight 
at  least,  and,  although  the  Secretary  of 
Legation  politely  asks  your  name,  and 
promises  you  the  earliest  opportunity, 
you  retire  with  a  natural  feeling  of  disap- 
pointment. Many  Americans,  having 
only  a  few  days  to  spend  in  London, 
leave  the  city  without  making  any  fur- 
ther effort  to  visit  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. It  would  certainly  have  been  well 
to  forward,  in  advance  of  your  arrival  in 
London,  a  written  application  to  the  Min- 
ister ;  but  as  this  has  not  been  done,  what 
remains  ?  Ask  your  banker  for  a  note 
of  introduction  to  some  member  of  the 
House,  and,  armed  with  this  epistle,  make 
your  appearance  in  the  lobby.  Give 
the  note,  with  your  card,  to  that  grave, 
clerical-looking  man  in  a  little  box  on 
the  left  of  the  main  entrance,  and  pa- 
tiently await  the  approach  of  the  "  hon- 
orable gentleman."  If  the  Speaker's 
Gallery  is  not  full,  he  will  have  no  diffi- 
culty in  procuring  for  you  the  desired 
admission ;  and  if  at  leisure,  he  will  un- 
doubtedly spend  a  few  moments  in  point- 
ing out  the  distinguished  men  who  may 
chance  to  be  in  attendance.  Be  sure 
and  carry  an  opera-glass.  Without  this 
precaution,  you  will  not  be  able  to  study 
to  your  satisfaction  the  faces  of  the  mem- 
bers, for  the  House  is  by  no  means  bril- 
liantly illuminated.  If  for  any  reason  this 
last  expedient  does  not  succeed,  must  we 
despair  for  this  evening  ?  We  are  on 
the  ground,  and  our  engagements  may 
not  leave  another  so  good  opportunity. 
I  have  alluded  to  the  presence  of  police- 
men in  the  lobby.  Do  I  dream,  or  has  it 
been  whispered  to  me,  that  half  a  crown, 
opportunely  and  adroitly  invested,  may 
be  of  substantial  advantage  to  the  wait- 
ing stranger?  But  by  all  means  insist 
on  the  Speaker's  Gallery.  The  Stran- 
gers' Gallery  is  less  desirable  for  many 

VOL.   VIII.  43 


reasons,  and,  being  open  to  everybody 
who  has  a  member's  order,  is  almost  in- 
variably crowded.  At  all  events,  it  should 
be  reserved  as  a  dernier  resort.  As  an 
illustration  of  the  kindly  feeling  towards 
Americans,  I  may  mention,  parenthetical- 
ly, that  I  have  known  gentlemen  admit- 
ted to  the  Speaker's  Gallery  on  their 
simple  statement  to  the  door-keeper  that 
they  were  from  the  United  States.  On 
one  of  these  occasions,  the  official,  a  civ- 
il personage,  but  usually  grave  to  the 
verge  of  solemnity,  —  the  very  last  man 
you  would  have  selected  as  capable  of 
waggery,  —  assumed  a  comical  counter- 
feit of  terror,  and  said,  —  "  Bless  me  ! 
we  must  be  obliging  to  Americans,  or 
who  knows  what  may  come  of  it  ? " 

It  should  be  observed,  however,  that 
on  a  "  field  night "  not  one  of  the  modes 
of  admission  which  I  have  described  will 
be  of  any  service.  Nothing  will  avail 
you  then  but  a  place  on  the  Speaker's 
list,  and  even  in  that  case  you  must  be 
promptly  at  your  post,  for  "  First  come 
first  served"  is  the  rule. 

But  we  have  hngered  long  enough  in 
the  Lobby.  Let  us  take  our  places  in 
the  Speaker's  Gallery, — for  the  essayist 
has  hardly  less  power  than,  according  to 
Sydney  Smith,  has  the  novelist,  and  a 
few  strokes  of  the  pen  shall  show  you 
what  many  have  in  vain  longed  to  see. 

Once  there,  our  attention  is  instantly 
attracted  by  observing  that  almost  every 
member,  who  is  not  speaking,  wears  his 
hat.  This,  although  customary,  is  not 
compulsory.  Parliamentary  etiquette  on- 
ly insists  that  a  member  while  speaking, 
or  moving  from  place  to  place,  shall  be 
uncovered.  The  gallery  opposite  the  one 
in  which  we  are  seated  is  for  the  use  of 
the  reporters.  That  ornamental  brass 
trellis  in  the  rear  of  the  reporters,  half 
concealing  a  party  of  ladies,  is  a  curious 
compromise  between  what  is  due  to  tra- 
ditional Parliamentary  regulations  and 
the  courtesy  to  which  the  fair  sex  is  en- 
titled. This  relaxation  of  the  old  rules 
dates  only  from  the  erection  of  the  new 
building. 

The  perfect  order  which  prevails  among 


666 


A  Meld  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons.         [December, 


members  is  another  marked  feature  dur- 
ing the  debates.  The  bewigged  and  be- 
robed  Speaker,  seated  in  his  imposing 
high-backed  chair,  seems  rather  to  be  re- 
tained in  his  place  out  of  due  deference 
to  time-honored  custom  than  because  a 
presiding  officer  is  necessary  to  preserve 
proper  decorum.  To  be  sure,  demon- 
strations of  applause  at  a  good  hit,  or  of 
discontent  with  a  prosy  speaker,  are  com- 
mon, but  anything  approaching  disorder 
is  of  rare  occurrence. 

The  adherence  to  forms  and  prece- 
dents is  not  a  little  amusing.  Take,  for 
example,  a  "  division,"  which  corresponds 
to  a  call  for  the  Ayes  and  Noes  with  us. 
To  select  an  instance  at  random,  —  there 
happens  this  evening  to  be  a  good  deal 
of  excitement  about  some  documents 
which  it  is  alleged  the  Ministry  dare  not 
produce  ;  so  the  minority,  who  oppose 
the  bill  under  debate,  make  a  great  show 
of  demanding  the  papers,  and,  not  being 
gratified,  move  to  adjourn  the  debate, 
with  the  design  of  postponing  the  passage 
of  the  obnoxious  measure. 

"I  move  that  the  debate  be  adjourn- 
ed." 

"  Who  seconds  ?  '* 

"  I  do." 

"  Those  in  the  affirmative,"  etc.,  etc. 

Feeble  "  Aye." 

Most  emphatic  "  No." 

"  The  noes  have  it." 

"  No  ! "    "  No  ! " 

"Aye!"    "Aye!" 

"  Divide  ! "  "  Divide  ! "  in  a  perfect 
Babel  of  orderly  confusion. 

(Speaker,  very  solemnly  and  decided- 

"  Strangers  must  withdraw  ! " 
Is  the  gallery  immediately  cleared? 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  Every  man  retains  his 
place.  Some  even  seem,  to  my  fancy,  to 
look  a  sort  of  grim  defiance  at  the  Speak- 
er, as  a  bold  Briton  should.  It  is  simply 
a  form,  which  many  years  ago  had  some 
•meaning,  and,  having  once  been  used, 
cannot  be  discontinued  without  putting 
the  Constitution  in  jeopardy.  Five  times 
this  evening,  the  minority,  intent  on  post- 
:poning  the  debate,  call  for  a  division,  — 


and  as  many  times  are  strangers  gravely 
admonished  to  withdraw. 

There  are  two  modes  of  adjourning 
the  House, — by  vote  of  the  members, 
and  by  want  of  a  quorum.  The  method 
of  procedure  in  the  latter  case  is  some- 
what peculiar,  and  has,  of  course,  the 
sanction  of  many  generations.  Suppose 
that  a  dull  debate  on  an  unimportant 
measure,  numerous  dinner-parties,  a  fash- 
ionable opera,  and  other  causes,  have 
combined  to  reduce  the  number  of  mem- 
bers in  attendance  to  a  dozen.  It  certain- 
ly is  not  difficult  to  decide  at  a  glance  that 
a  quorum  (forty)  is  not  present,  and  I  pre- 
sume you  are  every  instant  expecting,  in 
your  innocence,  to  hear,  "Mr.  Speaker, 
I  move,"  etc.  Pause  a  moment,  my  impa- 
tient friend,  too  long  accustomed  to  the 
reckless  haste  of  our  Republican  assem- 
blies. Do  not,  even  in  thought,  tamper 
with  the  Constitution.  "  The  wisdom  of 
our  ancestors"  has  bequeathed  another 
and  undoubtedly  a  better  mode  of  arriv- 
ing at  the  same  result.  Some  member 
quietly  intimates  to  the  Speaker  that  forty 
members  are  not  present.  That  dignified 
official  then  rises,  and,  using  his  cocked 
hat  as  an  index  or  pointer,  deliberately 
counts  the  members.  Discovering,  as  the 
apparent  result  of  careful  examination, 
that  there  really  is  no  quorum,  he  de- 
clares the  House  adjourned  and  sits  down ; 
whereupon  the  Sergeant-at-Arms  seizes 
the  mace,  shoulders  it,  and  marches  out, 
followed  by  the  Speaker.  Then,  and  not 
until  then,  is  the  ceremony  complete  and 
the  House  duly  adjourned. 

This  respect  for  traditional  usage  ad- 
mits of  almost  endless  illustration.  One 
more  example  must  suffice.  When  the 
Speaker  discovers  symptoms  of  disorder 
in  the  House,  he  rises  in  his  place  and 
says  with  all  suitable  solemnity,  "  Unless 
Honorable  Members  preserve  order,  I 
shall  name  names  ! "  and  quiet  is  instant- 
ly restored.  What  mysterious  and  appal- 
ling consequences  would  result  from  per- 
sistent disobedience,  nobody  in  or  out  of 
the  House  has  ever  known,  or  probably 
ever  will  know,  —  at  any  rate,  no  Speak- 
er in  Parliamentary  annals  has  been  com- 


1861.] 


A  Field  Night  in  the  Bouse  of  Commons. 


667 


pelled  to  adopt  the  dreaded  alternative. 
Shall  I  be  thought  wanting  in  patriotism, 
if  I  venture  to  doubt  whether  so  simple 
an  expedient  would  reduce  to  submission 
an  insubordinate  House  of  Representa- 
tives at  Washington? 

Like  everything  else  thoroughly  Eng- 
lish, speaking  in  the  House  of  Commons 
is  eminently  practical.  "  The  bias  of  the 
nation,"  says  Mr.  Emerson,  "  is  a  passion 
for  utility."  Conceive  of  a  company  of 
gentlemen  agreeing  to  devote,  gratuitous- 
ly, a  certain  portion  of  each  year  to  the 
consideration  of  any  questions  which  may 
concern  the  public  welfare,  and  you  have 
the  theory  and  the  practice  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  Of  course  there  are  exceptions 
to  this  general  statement.  There  are  not 
wanting  constituencies  represented  by  un- 
fit men ;  but  such  members  are  not  allow- 
ed to  consume  the  time  which  belongs  of 
right  to  men  of  capacity  and  tried  ability. 
The  test  is  sternly,  almost  despotically 
applied.  A  fair  trial  is  given  to  a  new 
member.  If  he  is  "  up  to  his  work,"  his 
name  goes  on  the  list  of  men  whom  the 
House  will  hear.  If,  however,  his  maid- 
en speech  is  a  failure,  "  farewell,  a  long 
farewell"  to  all  his  political  aspirations. 
Few^  men  have  risen  from  such  a  fall. 
Now  and  then,  as  in  the  well-known  in- 
stances of  Sheridan,  Disraeli,  and  some 
less  prominent  names,  real  genius,  aided 
by  dogged  determination,  has  forced  its 
way  upward  in  spite  of  early  ill-success ; 
but  such  cases  are  very  rare.  The  rule 
may  work  occasional  injustice,  but  is  it 
after  all  so  very  unreasonable  ?  "  Talk- 
ing," they  contend,  "  must  be  done  by 
those  who  have  something  to  say." 

Everything  one  sees  in  the  House  par- 
takes of  this  practical  tendency.  There 
are  no  conveniences  for  writing.  A  mem- 
ber who  should  attempt  to  read  a  manu- 
script speech  would  never  get  beyond 
the  first  sentence.  Nor  does  anybody 
ever  dream  of  writing  out  his  address  and 
committing  it  to  memory.  In  fact,  noth- 
ing can  be  more  informal  than  their  man- 
ner in  debate.  You  see  a  member  rising 
with  his  hat  in  one  hand,  and  his  gloves 
and  cane  in  the  other.    It  is  as  if  he  had 


just  said  to  his  neighbor,  "  I  have  taken 
a  good  deal  of  interest  in  the  subject  un- 
der discussion,  and  have  been  at  some 
pains  to  understand  it.  I  am  inclined  to 
tell  the  House  what  I  think  of  it."  So 
you  find  him  on  the  floor,  or  "  on  his 
legs,"  in  parliamentary  phrase,  carrying 
this  intention  into  effect  in  a  simple, 
business-like,  straightforward  way.  But 
if  our  friend  is  very  long,  or  threatens  to 
be  tedious,  I  fear  that  unequivocal  and 
increasing  indications  of  discontent  will 
oblige  him  to  resume  his  seat  in  undig- 
nified haste. 

Perhaps  no  feature  of  the  debates  in 
the  House  of  Commons  deserves  more 
honorable  mention  than  the  high-toned 
courtesy  which  regulates  the  intercourse 
of  members. 

Englishmen  have  never  been  charged 
with  a  want  of  spirit ;  on  the  contrary, 
they  are  proverbially  "  plucky,"  and  yet 
the  House  is  never  disgraced  by  those 
shameful  brawls  which  have  given  to  our 
legislative  assemblies,  state  and  national, 
so  unenviable  a  reputation  throughout  the 
civilized  world.  How  does  this  happen  ? 
To  Englishmen  it  does  not  seem  a  very 
difficult  matter  to  manage.  If  one  mem- 
ber charges  another  with  ungentlemanly 
or  criminal  conduct,  he  must  follow  up 
his  charge  and  prove  it,  —  in  which  case 
the  culprit  is  no  longer  recognized  as  a 
gentleman  ;  or  if  he  fails  to  make  good 
his  accusation,  and  neglects  to  atone  for 
his  offence  by  ample  and  satisfactory 
apologies,  he  is  promptly  "sent  to  Cov- 
entry" as  a  convicted  calumniator.  No 
matter  how  high  his  social  position  may 
have  been,  whether  nobleman  or  com- 
moner, he  shall  not  escape  the  disgrace 
he  has  deserved.  And  to  forfeit  one's 
standing  among  English  gentlemen  is  a 
punishment  hardly  less  severe  than  to 
lose  caste  in  India.  In  such  a  commu- 
nity, what  need  of  duels  to  vindicate 
wounded  honor  or  establish  a  reputation 
for  courage  ? 

The  members  of  the  present  House  of 
Commons  were  elected  in  the  spring  of 
1859.  Among  their  number  are  several 
men  who,  in  point  of  capacity,  eloquence. 


668 


A  Field  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons.         [December, 


and  political  experience,  will  compare  not 
unfavorably  with  the  ablest  statesmen 
whom  England  has  known  for  genera- 
tions. I  have  thought  that  some  descrip- 
tion of  their  appearance  and  mental  char- 
acteristics might  not  be  unacceptable  to 
American  readers.  As  the  best  mode  of 
accomplishing  this  object,  I  shall  select 
an  occasion,  which,  from  the  importance 
of  the  question  under  discussion,  the  deep 
interest  which  it  awakened,  and  the  abil- 
ity with  which  it  was  treated,  certainly 
presented  as  favorable  an  opportunity  as 
could  ever  occur  to  form  a  correct  opin- 
ion of  the  best  speaking  talent  in  the 
kingdom.  The  debate  to  which  I  allude 
took  place  early  in  the  month  of  July, 
1860. 

My  name  being  fortunately  on  the  first 
list  for  the  Speaker's  Gallery,  I  had  no 
difficulty  in  taking  my  place  the  moment 
the  door  was  open.  It  will  be  readily  be- 
lieved that  every  seat  was  soon  filled.  In 
front  of  the  Speaker's  Gallery  is  a  single 
row  of  seats  designed  for  foreign  ambas- 
sadors and  peers.  The  first  man  to  enter 
it  was  Mr.  Dallas,  and  he  was  presently 
followed  by  other  members  of  the  diplo- 
matic corps,  and  several  distinguished  no- 
blemen. 

It  was  very  interesting  to  an  American 
that  almost  the  first  business  of  the  even- 
ing concerned  his  own  country.  Some 
member  of  the  House  asked  Lord  John 
Russell,  then  Secretary  for  Foreign  Af- 
fairs, if  he  had  received  any  recent  de- 
spatches from  the  United  States  relating 
to  the  San  Juan  difficulty.  It  will  be  re- 
membered, or  would  be,  but  for  the  rapid 
march  of  more  momentous  events,  that 
only  a  short  time  before,  news  had  reach- 
ed England  that  General  Harney,  violat- 
ing the  explicit  instructions  of  General 
Scott,  so  wisely  and  opportunely  issued, 
had  claimed  for  the  United  States  exclu- 
sive jurisdiction  over  the  island  of  San 
Juan.  Lord  John  replied  by  stating  what 
had  been  the  highly  honorable  and  judi- 
cious policy  of  General  Scott,  and  the  un- 
warrantable steps  subsequently  taken  by 
General  Harney,  —  that  Lord  Lyons  had 
,  communicated  information  of  the  conduct 


of  General  Harney  to  President  Buchan- 
an, who  had  recalled  that  officer,  and  had 
forwarded  instructions  to  his  successor  to 
continue  in  the  course  marked  out  by 
General  Scott.  This  gratifying  announce- 
ment was  greeted  in  the  House  with  hear- 
ty cheers,  —  a  spontaneous  demonstra- 
tion of  delight,  which  proved  not  only  that 
the  position  of  aifairs  on  this  question  was 
thought  to  be  serious,  but  also  the  genu- 
ine desire  of  Englishmen  to  remain  in  am- 
icable relations  with  the  United  States. 

To  this  brief  business  succeeded  the 
great  debate  of  the  session.  Let  me  en- 
deavor, at  the  risk  of  being  tedious,  to  ex- 
plain the  exact  question  before  the  House. 
Mr.  Gladstone,  in  his  speech  on  the  Budg- 
et, had  pledged  the  Ministry  to  a  consid- 
erable reduction  of  the  taxes  for  the  com- 
ing year.  In  fulfilment  of  this  pledge,  it 
had  been  decided  to  remit  the  duty  on  pa- 
per, thereby  abandoning  about  £1,500,- 
000  of  revenue.  A  bill  to  carry  this  plan 
into  effect  passed  to  its  second  reading  by 
a  majority  of  fifty-three.  To  defeat  the 
measure  the  Opposition  devoted  all  its  en- 
ergies, and  with  such  success  that  the  bill 
passed  to  its  third  reading  by  the  greatly 
reduced  majority  of  nine.  Emboldened 
by  this  almost  victory,  the  Conservatives 
determined  to  give  the  measure  its  coup 
de  grace  in  the  House  of  Lords.  The 
Opposition  leaders.  Lord  Derby,  Lord 
Lyndhurst,  Lord  Ellenborough,  and  oth- 
ers, attacked  the  bill,  and  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer,  its  acknowledged  au- 
thor, with  as  much  bitterness  and  severity 
as  are  ever  considered  compatible  with 
the  dignified  decorum  of  that  aristocratic 
body ;  all  the  Conservative  forces  were 
rallied,  and,  what  with  the  votes  actually 
given  and  the  proxies,  the  Opposition  ma- 
jority was  immense. 

Now  all  this  was  very  easily  and  verj^ 
quickly  done.  The  Conservatives  were  ex- 
ultant, and  even  seemed  sanguine  enough 
to  believe  that  the  Ministry  had  received 
a  fatal  blow.  But  they  forgot,  in  the  first 
flush  of  victory,  that  they  were  treading 
on  dangerous  ground, — that  they  were 
meddling  with  what  had  been  regarded 
for  centuries  as  the  exclusive  privilege 


1861.] 


A  Field  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons. 


669 


of  the  House  of  Commons.  English  Par- 
liamentary history  teaches  no  clearer  les- 
son than  that  the  right  to  pass  "Mon- 
ey Bills,"  without  interference  from  the 
House  of  Lords,  has  been  claimed  and 
exercised  by  the  House  of  Commons  for 
several  generations.  The  public  was  not 
slow  to  take  the  alarm.  To  be  sure,  sev- 
eral causes  conspired  to  lessen  somewhat 
the  popular  indignation.  Among  these 
were  the  inevitable  expenses  of  the  Chi- 
nese War,  the  certainty  of  an  increased 
income  tax,  if  the  bill  became  a  law,  and 
the  very  small  majority  which  the  meas- 
ure finally  received  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. 

Nevertheless,  the  public  mind  was  deep- 
ly moved.  The  perils  of  such  a  prece- 
dent were  evident  enough  to  any  thinking 
man.  Although  the  unwearied  exertions 
of  Bright,  Roebuck,  and  other  leading 
Radicals,  could  not  arouse  the  people  to 
that  state  of  unreasoning  excitement  in 
which  these  demagogues  delight,  yet  the 
tone  of  the  press  and  the  spirit  of  the 
public  meetings  gave  proof  that  the  im- 
portance of  the  crisis  was  not  wholly 
underrated.  These  meetings  were  fre- 
quent and  largely  attended ;  inflammato- 
ry speeches  were  made,  strong  resolutions 
passed,  and  many  petitions  numerously 
signed,  protesting  against  the  recent  con- 
duct of  the  Lords,  were  presented  to  the 
popular  branch  of  Parliament. 

In  the  House  of  Commons  the  action 
was  prompt  and  decided.  A  committee 
was  immediately  appointed  to  search  for 
precedents,  and  ascertain  if  such  a  pro- 
ceeding was  justified  by  Parliamentary 
history.  The  result  of  this  investigation 
was  anxiously  awaited  both  by  the  Com- 
mons and  the  nation.  To  the  disappoint- 
ment of  everybody,  the  committee,  after 
patient  and  protracted  research,  submit- 
ted a  report,  giving  no  opinion  whatever 
on  the  question,  but  merely  reciting  all 
the  precedents  that  bore  on  the  subject. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  condition 
of  affairs  was  not  a  little  critical.  Both 
the  strength  of  the  Ministry  and  the  dig- 
nity of  the  House  of  Commons  were  in- 
volved in  the  final  decision.     But,  unfor- 


tunately, the  Ministerial  party  was  far 
from  being  a  unit  on  the  question.  Bright 
and  the  "  Manchester  School "  demand- 
ed an  uncompromising  and  defiant  atti- 
tude towards  the  Lords.  Lord  Palmer- 
ston  was  for  asserting  the  rights  and  priv- 
ileges of  the  Commons,  but  for  avoiding 
a  collision.  Where  Mr.  Gladstone  would 
be  found  could  not  be  precisely  predict- 
ed ;  but  he  was  understood  to  be  deeply 
chagrined  at  the  defeat  of  his  favorite 
measure,  and  to  look  upon  the  action 
of  the  Peers  as  almost  a  personal  insult. 
Lord  John  Russell  was  supposed  to  oc- 
cupy a  position  somewhere  between  the 
Premier  and  the  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer. If  the  leaders  were  thus  divid- 
ed in  opinion,  there  was  no  less  diversity 
of  views  among  their  followers.  Some 
did  not  at  all  appreciate  the  nature  or 
magnitude  of  the  question,  a  few  sympa- 
thized with  the  Conservatives,  and  very 
many  were  satisfied  that  a  mistake  had 
been  made  in  sacrificing  so  large  a  source 
of  revenue  at  a  time  when  the  immediate 
prospect  of  war  with  China  and  the  con- 
dition of  the  national  defences  rendered 
it  important  to  increase,  rather  than  di- 
minish the  available  funds  in  the  treasury. 
The  Opposition,  of  course,  were  ready  to 
take  advantage  of  any  weak  points  in  the 
position  of  their  adversaries,  and  were 
even  hoping  that  the  Ministerial  dissen- 
sions might  lead  to  a  Ministerial  defeat. 

It  was  under  these  circumstances  that 
Lord  Palmerston  rose  to  define  the  posi- 
tion of  the  Ministry,  to  vindicate  the  hon- 
or and  dignity  of  the  Commons,  to  avert 
a  collision  with  the  House  of  Lords,  and, 
in  general,  to  extricate  the  councils  of 
the  nation  from  an  embarrassing  and  dan- 
gerous dilemma. 

A  word  about  the  personnel  of  the  Pre- 
mier, and  a  glance  at  some  of  his  political 
antecedents.  His  Lordship  has  been  for 
so  many  years  in  public  life,  and  a  mark- 
ed man  among  English  statesmen,  that, 
either  by  engraving,  photograph,  or  per- 
sonal observation,  his  face  is  familiar  to 
many  Americans.  And,  certainly,  there 
is  nothing  in  his  features  or  in  the  ex- 
pression of  his  countenance  to  indicate 


670 


A  Field  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons.         [December, 


genius  or  even  ability.  He  is  simply  a 
burly  Englishman,  of  middling  height, 
•with  an  air  of  constant  good-humor  and 
a  very  pleasant  understanding  with  him- 
self. Perhaps  the  first  thing  about  him 
which  impresses  an  American,  accustom- 
ed at  home  to  dyspeptic  politicians  and 
statesmen  prematurely  old,  is  his  physical 
activity.  Fancy  a  man  of  seventy- six, 
who  has  been  in  most  incessant  political 
life  for  more  than  fifty  years,  sitting  out  a 
debate  of  ten  hours  without  flinching,  and 
then  walking  to  his  house  in  Piccadilly, 
not  less  than  two  miles.  And  his  body  is 
not  more  active  than  hisTmind.  He  does 
something  more  than  sit  out  a  debate. 
Not  a  word  escapes  him  when  a  promi- 
nent man  is  on  his  legs.  Do  not  be  de- 
ceived by  his  lazy  attitude  or  his  sleepy 
expression.  Not  a  man  in  the  House 
has  his  wits  more  thoroughly  about  him. 
Ever  ready  to  extricate  his  colleagues 
from  an  awkward  difiiculty,  to  evade  a 
dangerous  question, — making,  with  an  air 
of  transparent  candor,  a  reply  in  which 
nothing  is  answered,  —  to  disarm  an  an- 
gry opponent  with  a  few  conciliatory  or 
complimentary  words,  or  to  demolish  him 
with  a  little  good-humored  raillery  which 
sets  the  House  in  a  roar ;  equally  skilful 
in  attack  and  retreat :  such,  in  a  word, 
is  the  bearing  of  this  gay  and  gallant  vet- 
eran, from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of 
each  debate,  during  the  entire  session  of 
Parliament.  He  seems  absolutely  insen- 
sible to  fatigue.  "  I  happened,"  said  a 
member  of  the  House,  writing  to  a  friend, 
last  summer,  "  to  follow  Lord  Palmerston, 
as  he  left  the  cloak-room,  the  other  morn- 
ing, after  a  late  sitting,  and,  as  I  was  go- 
ing his  way,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  see 
how  he  got  over  the  ground.  At  first  he 
seemed  a  little  stifi*  in  the  legs ;  but  when 
he  warmed  to  his  work  he  began  to  pull 
out,  and  before  he  got  a  third  of  the  way 
he  bowled  along  splendidly,  so  that  he 
put  me  to  it  to  keep  him  in  view.  Per- 
haps in  a  few  hours  after  that  long  sit- 
ting and  that  walk  home,  and  the  brief 
sleep  that  followed,  the  Premier  might 
have  been  seen  standing  bolt  upright  at 
one  end  of  a  great  table  in  Cambridge 


House,  receiving  a  deputation  from  the 
country,  listening  with  patient  and  cour- 
teous attention  to  some  tedious  spokes- 
man, or  astonishing  his  hearers  by  his 
knowledge  of  their  affairs  and  his  inti- 
macy with  their  trade  or  business."  On 
a  previous  night,  I  had  seen  Lord  Palmer- 
ston in  his  seat  in  the  House  from  4  p.  m. 
until  about  2  a.  m.,  during  a  dull  debate, 
and  was  considerably  amused  when  he 
rose  at  that  late  or  early  hour,  and  "  beg- 
ged to  suggest  to  honorable  gentlemen," 
that,  although  he  was  perfectly  willing  to 
sit  there  until  daylight,  yet  he  thought 
something  was  due  to  the  Speaker,  (a 
hale,  hearty  man,  sixteen  years  his  jun- 
ior,) and  as  there  was  to  be  a  session  at 
noon  of  that  day,  he  hoped  the  debate 
would  be  adjourned.  The  same  sugges- 
tion had  been  fruitlessly  made  half  a  doz- 
en times  before  ;  but  the  Premier's  man- 
ner was  irresistible,  and  amid  great  laugh- 
ter the  motion  prevailed.  The  Speaker, 
with  a  grateful  smile  to  the  member  for 
Tiverton,  immediately  and  gladly  retired, 
but  the  indefatigable  leader  remained  at 
his  post  an  hour  longer,  while  the  House 
was  sitting  in  Committee  on  Supplies. 

But  his  Parliamentary  duties  by  no 
means  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  public 
labors.  Deputations  representing  all  sorts 
of  interests  w^ait  on  him  almost  daily,  his 
presence  is  indispensable  at  all  Cabinet 
consultations,  and  as  Prime  Minister  he 
gives  tone  and  direction  to  the  domestic 
and  foreign  policy  of  the  English  govern- 
ment. How  much  is  implied  in  these 
duties  and  responsibilities  must  be  ap- 
parent to  all  who  speak  the  English  lan- 
guage. 

Now  what  is  the  secret  of  this  vigorous 
old  age,  after  a  life  spent  in  such  arduous 
avocations  ?  Simply  this,  that  a  consti- 
tution robust  by  nature  has  been  pre- 
served in  its  strength  by  regular  habits 
and  out-door  exercise.  If  I  were  to  re- 
peat the  stories  I  have  heard,  and  seen 
stated  in  English  newspapers,  of  the  feats, 
pedestrian  and  equestrian,  performed  by 
Lord  Palmerston  from  early  manhood 
down  to  the  present  writing,  I  fear  I  should 
be  suspected  by  some  of  my  readers  of 


1861.] 


A  Field  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons. 


671 


offering  an  insult  to  their  understanding. 
I  must  therefore  content  myself  with  say- 
ing that  very  few  young  men  of  our  day 
and  country  could  follow  him  in  the  field 
or  keep  up  with  him  on  the  road. 

A  word  about  Lord  Palmerston's  po- 
litical antecedents.  Beginning  as  Junior 
Lord  of  the  Admiralty  in  the  Duke  of 
Portland's  Ministry,  in  1808,  he  has  since 
been  once  Secretary  of  War,  five  times 
Prime  Minister,  and  once  Secretary  of 
State.  From  1811  to  1831  he  represent- 
ed Cambridge  University.  Since  1835 
he  has  represented  Tiverton.  It  may  be 
safely  asserted  that  no  man  now  living  in 
England  has  been  so  long  or  so  promi- 
nently in  public  office,  and  probably  no 
man  presents  a  more  correct  type  of  the 
Liberal,  although  not  Radical,  sentiment 
of  England. 

It  may  be  well  to  state  that  on  this 
evening  there  was  an  unusually  large 
attendance  of  members.  Not  only  were 
all  the  benches  on  the  floor  of  the  House 
filled,  but  the  rare  spectacle  was  present- 
ed of  members  occupying  seats  in  the 
east  and  west  galleries.  These  unfor- 
tunates belonged  to  that  class  who  are 
seldom  seen  in  their  places,  but  who  are 
sometimes  whipped  in  by  zealous  parti- 
sans, when  important  questions  are  un- 
der consideration,  and  a  close  vote  may 
be  expected.  Their  listless  faces  and 
sprawling  attitudes  proved  clearly  enough 
that  they  were  reluctant  and  bored  spec- 
tators of  the  scene.  It  deserves  to  be 
mentioned,  also,  that,  although  there  are 
six  hundred  and  fifty-six  actual  members 
of  the  House,  the  final  vote  on  the  ques- 
tion showed,  that,  even  on  that  eventful 
night,  only  four  hundred  and  sixty-two 
were  present.  The  average  attendance 
is  about  three  hundred. 

At  half-past  four,  the  Premier  rose  to 
address  the  House.  He  had  already  giv- 
en due  notice  that  he  should  introduce 
three  resolutions,  which,  considering  the 
importance  of  the  subject,  I  make  no 
apology  for  giving  in  full. 

"  1.  That  the  right  of  granting  aids 
and  supplies  to  the  Crown  is  in  the  Com- 
mons alone  as  an  essential  part  of  their 


Constitution,  and  the  limitation  of  all  such 
grants,  as  to  the  matter,  manner,  meas- 
ure, and  time,  is  only  in  them. 

"  2.  That,  although  the  Lords  have  ex- 
ercised the  power  of  rejecting  bills  of 
several  descriptions  relating  to  taxation 
by  negativing  the  whole,  yet  the  exer- 
cise of  that  power  by  them  has  not  been 
frequent,  and  is  justly  regarded  by  this 
House  with  peculiar  jealousy,  as  affect- 
ing the  right  of  the  Commons  to  grant 
the  supplies  and  to  provide  the  ways  and 
means  for  the  service  of  the  year. 

"  3.  That,  to  guard  for  the  future 
against  an  undue  exercise  of  that  power 
by  the  Lords,  and  to  secure  to  the  Com- 
mons their  rightful  control  over  taxation 
and  supply,  this  House  has  in  its  own 
hands  the  power  so  to  impose  and  remit 
taxes,  and  to  frame  Bills  of  Supply,  that 
the  right  of  the  Commons  as  to  the  mat- 
ter, manner,  measure,  and  time  may  be 
maintained  inviolate." 

The  burden  of  the  speech  by  which 
the  Premier  supported  these  resolutions 
was  this.  The  assent  of  both  Houses  is 
necessary  to  a  bill,  and  each  branch  pos- 
sesses the  power  of  rejection.  But  in  re- 
gard to  certain  bills,  to  wit.  Money  Bills, 
the  House  claims,  as  its  peculiar  and  ex- 
clusive privilege,  the  right  of  originating, 
altering,  or  amending  them.  As  the  Lords 
have,  however,  the  right  and  power  of  as- 
senting, they  have  also  the  right  and  pow- 
er of  rejecting.  He  admitted  that  they 
had  frequently  exercised  this  right  of  re- 
jection. Yet  it  must  be  observed,  that, 
when  they  had  done  so,  it  had  been  in 
the  case  of  bills  involving  taxes  of  small 
amount,  or  connected  with  questions  of 
commercial  protection.  No  case  had 
ever  occurred  precisely  like  this,  where 
a  bill  providing  for  the  repeal  of  a  tax 
of  large  amount,  and  on  the  face  of  it  un- 
mixed with  any  other  question,  had  been 
rejected  by  the  Lords. 

"  But,  in  point  of  fact,"  he  continued, 
"  was  there  not  another  question  involv- 
ed ?  Was  it  not  clear,  that,  the  bill  hav- 
ing passed  by  a  majority  greatly  reduced 
since  its  second  reading,  the  Lords  may 
have  thought  that  it  would  be  well  to  give 


672 


A  Field  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons.         [December, 


the  Commons  further  time  to  reflect  ?  In- 
deed, was  there  not  abundant  reason  to 
believe  that  the  Lords  were  not  really- 
initiating  a  new  and  dangerous  policy, 
that  of  claiming  to  be  partners  with  the 
House  in  originating  and  disposing  of 
Money  Bills  ?  Therefore,  would  it  not 
be  sufficient  for  the  House  firmly  to  as- 
sert its  rights,  and  to  intimate  the  jeal- 
ous care  with  which  it  intended  to  guard 
against  their  infringement  ?  " 

Of  course,  this  brief  and  imperfect  ab- 
stract of  an  hour's  speech  can  do  no  sort 
of  justice  to  its  merits.  It  is  much  easier 
to  describe  its  effect  upon  the  House. 
From  the  moment  when  the  Premier  ut- 
tered his  opening  sentence,  "  I  rise  upon 
an  occasion  which  will  undoubtedly  rank 
as  one  of  the  first  in  importance  among 
those  which  have  occurred  in  regard  to 
our  Parliamentary  proceedings,"  he  com- 
manded the  closest  attention  of  the  House. 
And  yet  he  was  neither  eloquent,  impres- 
sive, nor  even  earnest.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  attempt  at  declamation.  His 
voice  rarely  rose  above  a  conversational 
tone,  and  his  gestures  were  not  so  numer- 
ous or  so  decided  as  are  usual  in  animated 
dialogue.  His  air  and  manner  were  rath- 
er those  of  a  plain,  well-informed  man 
of  business,  not  unaccustomed  to  public 
speaking,  who  had  some  views  on  the  sub- 
ject under  discussion  which  he  desired  to 
present,  and  asked  the  ear  of  the  House 
for  a  short  hour  while  he  defined  his  po- 
sition. 

No  one  who  did  not  appreciate  the 
man  and  the  occasion  would  have  dream- 
ed that  he  was  confronting  a  crisis  which 
might  lead  to  a  change  in  the  Ministry, 
and  might  array  the  two  Houses  of  Par- 
liament in  angry  hostility  against  each 
other.  But  here  lay  the  consummate  skill 
of  the  Premier.  He  was  playing  a  most 
difficult  role,  and  he  played  it  to  perfec- 
tion. He  could  not  rely  on  the  support 
of  the  Radicals.  He  must  therefore  make 
amends  for  their  possible  defection  by 
drawing  largely  on  the  Conservative 
strength.  The  great  danger  was,  that, 
while  conciliating  the  Conservatives  by 
a  show  of  concession,  he  should  alienate 


his  own  party  by  seeming  to  concede  too 
much.  Now,  that  the  effect  which  he 
aimed  to  produce  excluded  all  declama- 
tion, all  attempt  at  eloquence,  anything 
like  flights  of  oratory  or  striking  figures 
of  rhetoric,  nobody  understood  better  than 
Lord  Palmerston. 

In  view  of  all  these  circumstances,  the 
adroitness,  the  ability,  the  sagacity,  and 
the  success  of  his  speech  were  most  won- 
derful. Gladstone  was  more  philosophi- 
cal, statesmanlike,  and  eloquent ;  White- 
side more  impassioned  and  vehement ; 
Disraeli  more  witty,  sarcastic,  and  telling ; 
but  Lord  Palmerston  displayed  more  of 
those  qualities  without  which  no  one  can 
be  a  successful  leader  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  The  result  was,  that  two  of 
the  resolutions  passed  without  a  division, 
and  the  third  was  carried  by  an  immense 
majority.  The  Prime  Minister  had  un- 
derstood the  temper  of  the  House,  and 
had  shaped  his  course  accordingly.  As 
we  have  seen,  he  succeeded  to  a  marvel. 
But  was  it  such  a  triumph  as  a  great  and 
far-reaching  statesman  would  have  de- 
sired ?  And  this  brings  us  to  the  other 
side  of  the  picture. 

Dexterous,  facile,  adroit,  politic,  versa- 
tile, —  as  Lord  Palmerston  certainly  is, — 
fertile  in  resources,  prompt  to  seize  and 
use  to  the  utmost  every  advantage,  en- 
dowed with  unusual  popular  gifts,  and 
blessed  with  imperturbable  good-humor, 
it  cannot  be  denied  that  in  many  of  the 
best  and  noblest  attributes  of  a  statesman 
he  is  sadly  deficient.  His  fondness  for 
political  power  and  his  anxiety  to  achieve 
immediate  success  inevitably  lead  him  to 
resort  to  temporary  and  often  unworthy 
expedients.  A  manly  rehance  on  gen- 
eral principles,  and  a  firm  faith  in  the 
ultimate  triumph  of  right  and  justice,  con- 
stitute no  part  of  his  character.  He  lives 
only  in  the  present.  That  he  is  making 
history  seems  never  to  occur  to  him.  He 
does  not  aspire  to  direct,  but  only  aims  to 
follow,  or  at  best  to  keep  pace  with  public 
opinion.  What  course  he  will  pursue  on 
a  given  question  can  never  be  safely  pre- 
dicted, until  you  ascertain,  as  correctly  as 
he  can,  what  is  the  prevaiUng  temper  of 


1861.] 


A  Field  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons, 


673 


the  House  or  the  nation.  That  he  will 
try  to  "  make  things  pleasant,"  to  concili- 
ate the  Opposition  without  weakening  the 
strength  of  his  own  party,  you  may  be 
sure ;  but  for  any  further  clue  to  his  poli- 
cy you  must  consult  the  press,  study  the 
spirit  of  Parliament,  and  hear  the  voice 
of  the  people.  I  know  no  better  illustra- 
tion to  prove  the  justice  of  this  view  of 
the  Premier's  political  failing  than  his 
bearing  in  the  debate  which  I  am  at- 
tempting to  describe.  Here  was  a  grave 
constitutional  question.  The  issue  was  a 
simple  and  clear  one.  Had  the  Lords  the 
right  to  reject  a  Money  Bill  which  had 
passed  the  House  ?  If  historical  prece- 
dents settled  the  question  clearly,  then 
there  was  no  difficulty  in  determining  the 
matter  at  once,  and  almost  without  dis- 
cussion. If,  however,  there  were  no  pre- 
cedents bearing  precisely  on  this  case, 
then  it  was  all  the  more  important  that 
this  should  be  made  the  occasion  of  a  set- 
tlement of  the  question  so  unequivocal 
and  positive  as  effectually  to  guard  against 
future  complication  and  embarrassment. 
Now  how  did  the  Premier  deal  with  this 
issue  ?  He  disregarded  the  homely  wis- 
dom contained  in  the  pithy  bull  of  Sir 
Boyle  Roche,  that  "  the  best  way  to  avoid 
a  dilemma  is  to  meet  it  plump."  He 
dodged  the  dilemma.  His  resolutions, 
worded  with  ingenious  obscurity,  skilfully 
evaded  the  important  aspect  of  the  con- 
troversy, and  two  of  them,  the  second 
and  third,  gave  equal  consolation  to  the 
Liberals  and  the  Conservatives.  So  that, 
in  fact,  it  is  reserved  for  some  future  Par- 
liament, in  which  it  cannot  be  doubted 
that  the  Radical  element  will  be  more 
numerous  and  more  powerful,  to  deter- 
mine what  should  have  been  decided  on 
tliis  very  evening.  It  was  cleverly  done, 
certainly,  and  extorted  from  all  parties 
and  members  of  every  shade  of  political 
opinion  that  admiration  which  the  success- 
ful performance  of  a  difficult  and  critical 
task  must  always  elicit.  But  was  it  states- 
manlike, or  in  any  high  sense  patriotic  or 
manly  ? 

The  Premier  was  followed  by  R.  P. 
Collier,  representing  Plymouth.    He  had 


been  on  the  committee  to  search  for  pre- 
cedents, and  he  devoted  an  hour  to  show- 
ing that  there  was  not,  in  all  Parliamen- 
tary history,  a  single  precedent  justifying 
the  action  of  the  Lords.  His  argument 
was  clear  and  convincing,  and  the  result 
of  it  was,  that  no  bill  simply  imposing  or 
remitting  a  tax  had  ever  in  a  single  in- 
stance been  rejected  by  the  Upper  House. 
In  all  the  thirty-six  cases  relied  on  by  the 
Opposition  there  was  always  some  other 
principle  involved,  which  furnished  plau- 
sible justification  for  the  course  adopted 
by  the  Lords. 

To  this  speech  I  observed  that  Mr. 
Gladstone  paid  strict  attention,  occasion- 
ally indicating  his  assent  by  an  approv- 
ing nod,  or  by  an  encouraging  "  Hear ! 
Hear ! "  It  is  rare,  indeed,  that  any  speak- 
er in  the  House  secures  the  marked  atten- 
tion or  catches  the  eye  of  the  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer. 

To  Collier  succeeded  Coningham,  mem- 
ber for  Brighton.  Now  as  this  honorable 
member  was  prosy  and  commonplace,  not 
to  say  stupid,  I  should  not  detain  my  read- 
ers with  any  allusion  to  his  speech,  but 
as  illustrating  a  prominent  and  very  cred- 
itable feature  of  the  debates  in  the  House. 
That  time  is  of  some  value,  and  that 
no  remarks  can  be  tolerated,  unless  they 
are  intelligent  and  pertinent,  are  cardinal 
doctrines  of  debate,  and  are  quite  rigid- 
ly enforced.  At  the  same  time  mere  dul- 
ness  is  often  overlooked,  as  soon  as  it  ap- 
pears that  the  speaker  has  something  to 
say  which  deserves  to  be  heard.  But 
there  is  one  species  of  oratory  which  is 
never  tolerated  for  a  moment,  and  that  is 
the  sort  of  declamation  which  is  designed 
merely  or  mainly  for  home-consumption, 
—  speaking  for  Buncombe,  as  we  call  it. 
The  instant,  therefore,  that  it  was  evi- 
dent that  Mr.  Coningham  was  address- 
ing, not  the  House  of  Commons,  but  his 
constituents  at  Brighton,  he  was  inter- 
rupted by  derisive  cheers  and  contemp- 
tuous groans.  Again  and  again  did  the 
indignant  orator  attempt  to  make  his 
voice  heard  above  the  confusion,  but  in 
vain  ;  and  when,  losing  all  presence  of 
mind,  he  made  the  fatal  admission,  —  "I 


674 


A  Field  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons.         [December, 


can  tell  Honorable  Gentlemen  that  I 
have  just  returned  from  visiting  my  con- 
stituents, and   I  can  assure  the  House 

that  more  intelligent"  the  tumult 

became  so  great,  that  the  remainder  of 
the  sentence  was  entirely  lost.  Seeing 
his  mistake,  Mr.  Coningham  changed  his 
ground.  "I  appeal  to  the  courtesy  of 
Honorable  Members ;  I  do  not  often  tres- 
pass upon  the  House  ;  I  implore  them  to 
give  me  a  patient  and  candid  hearing." 
This  appeal  to  the  love  of  "  fair  play,"  so 
characteristic  of  Englishmen,  produced 
immediately  the  desired  effect,  and  the 
member  concluded  without  further  inter- 
ruption. 

Mr.  Edwin  James  was  the  next  promi- 
nent speaker.  He  has  won  a  wide  repu- 
tation as  a  barrister,  chiefly  in  the  man- 
agement of  desperate  criminal  cases,  cul- 
minating in  his  defence  of  Dr.  Barnard, 
charged  with  being  accessory  to  the  at- 
tempted assassination  of  Louis  Napoleon. 
The  idol  of  the  populace,  he  was  elected 
by  a  large  majority  in  May,  1859,  as  an 
extreme  Liberal  or  Radical,  to  represent 
Marylebone  in  the  present  Parliament. 
His  warmest  admirers  will  hardly  con- 
tend that  since  his  election  he  has  done 
anything  to  distinguish  himself,  or  even 
to  sustain  the  reputation  which  his  suc- 
cess as  an  advocate  had  earned  for  him. 
The  expensive  vices  to  which  he  has  long 
been  addicted  have  left  him  bankrupt  in 
character  and  fortune.  His  large  profes- 
sional income  has  been  for  some  years  re- 
ceived by  trustees,  who  have  made  him 
a  liberal  allowance  for  his  personal  ex- 
penses, and  have  applied  the  remainder 
toward  the  payment  of  his  debts.  His 
recent  disgraceful  flight  from  England, 
and  the  prompt  action  of  his  legal  breth- 
ren in  view  of  his  conduct,  render  it  high- 
ly improbable  that  he  will  ever  return  to 
the  scene  of  his  former  triumphs  and  ex- 
cesses. Besides  its  brevity,  which  was 
commendable,  his  speech  this  evening 
presented  no  point  worthy  of  comment. 

Since  the  opening  remarks  of  Lord 
Palmerston,  five  Radicals  had  addressed 
the  House.  Without  exception  they  had 
denounced  the  action  of  the  Lords,  and 


more  than  one  had  savagely  attacked  the 
Opposition  for  supporting  the  proceedings 
of  the  Upper  House.  They  had  contend- 
ed that  the  Commons  were  becominir  con- 
es 

temptible  in  the  eyes  of  the  nation  by  their 
failure  to  take  a  manly  position  in  de- 
fence of  their  rights.  To  a  man,  they  had 
assailed  the  resolutions  of  the  Premier  as 
falling  far  short  of  the  dignity  of  the  oc- 
casion and  the  importance  of  the  crisis,  or, 
at  best,  as  intentionally  ambiguous.  Thus 
far  then  the  Radicals.  The  Opposition  had 
listened  to  them  in  unbroken  and  often 
contemptuous  silence,  enjoying  the  differ- 
ence of  opinion  in  the  Ministerial  party, 
but  reserving  themselves  for  some  foe- 
man  worthy  of  their  steel.  Nor  was  there, 
beyond  a  vague  rumor,  any  clue  to  the 
real  position  of  the  Cabinet  on  the  whole 
question.  Only  one  member  had  spoken 
for  the  Government,  and  it  was  more  than 
suspected  that  he  did  not  quite  correctly 
represent  the  views  of  the  Ministry. 

If  any  one  of  my  readers  had  been  in 
the  Speaker's  Gallery  on  that  evening, 
his  attention  would  have  been  arrested 
by  a  member  on  the  Ministerial  benches, 
a  little  to  the  right  of  Lord  Palmerston. 
His  face  is  the  most  striking  in  the  House, 
—  grave,  thoughtful,  almost  stern,  but 
lighting  up  with  wonderful  beauty  when 
he  smiles.  Usually,  his  air  is  rather  ab- 
stracted,— not,  indeed,  the  manner  of  one 
whose  thoughts  are  wandering  from  the 
business  under  debate,  but  rather  of  one 
who  is  thinking  deeply  upon  what  is  pass- 
ing around  him.  His  attitude  is  not  grace- 
ful :  lolling  at  full  length,  his  head  rest- 
ing on  the  back  of  the  seat,  and  his  legs 
stretched  out  before  him.  He  is  always 
neatly,  but  never  carefully  dressed,  and 
his  bearing  is  unmistakably  that  of  a  schol- 
ar. Once  or  twice  since  we  have  been 
watching  him,  he  has  scratched  a  few 
hasty  memoranda  on  the  back  of  an  en- 
velope, and  now,  amid  the  silence  of  gen- 
eral expectation,  the  full,  clear  tones  of 
his  voice  are  heard.  He  has  not  spoken 
five  minutes  before  members  who  have 
taken  advantage  of  the  dulness  of  recent 
debaters  to  dine,  or  to  fortify  themselves 
in  a  less  formal  way  for  the  night's  work 


1861.] 


A  Field  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons. 


675 


before  them,  begia  to  flock  to  their  seats. 
Not  an  eye  wanders  from  the  speaker,  and 
the  attention  which  he  commands  is  of  the 
kind  paid  in  the  House  only  to  merit  and 
abihty  of  the  highest  order.  And,  certain- 
ly, the  orator  is  not  unworthy  of  this  silent, 
but  most  respectful  tribute  to  his  talents. 
His  manner  is  earnest  and  animated,  his 
enunciation  is  beautifully  clear  and  dis- 
tinct, the  tones  of  his  voice  are  singular- 
ly pleasing  and  persuasive,  stealing  their 
way  into  the  hearts  of  men,  and  charm- 
ing them  into  assent  to  his  propositions. 
One  can  easily  understand  why  he  is 
called  the  "  golden-tongued." 

This  is  Mr.  Gladstone,  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer,  by  right  of  eloquence, 
statesmanship,  and  scholarly  attainments, 
the  foremost  man  in  England.  I  cannot 
hope  to  give  a  satisfactory  description  of 
his  speech,  nor  of  its  effect  upon  the 
House.  His  eloquence  is  of  that  quality 
to  which  no  sketch,  however  accurate, 
can  do  justice.  Read  any  one  of  his 
speeches,  as  reported  with  astonishing 
correctness  in  the  London  "  Times,"  and 
you  will  appreciate  the  clear,  philosophi- 
cal statement  of  political  truth, —  the  dig- 
nified, elevated,  statesmanlike  tone, — the 
rare  felicity  of  expression, — the  rhetorical 
beauty  of  style,  never  usurping  the  place 
of  argument,  though  often  concealing  the 
sharp  angles  of  his  relentless  logic,  —  the 
marvellous  ease  with  which  he  makes  the 
dry  details  of  finance  not  only  instructive, 
but  positively  fascinating,  —  his  adroit- 
ness in  retrieving  a  mistake,  or  his  saga- 
city in  abandoning,  in  season,  an  inde- 
fensible position,  —  the  lofty  and  indig- 
nant scorn  with  which  he  sometimes  con- 
descends to  annihilate  an  insolent  adver- 
sary, or  the  royal  courtesy  of  his  occa- 
sional compliments.  But  who  shall  be 
able  to  describe  those  attributes  of  his 
eloquence  which  address  themselves  on- 
ly to  the  ear  and  eye :  that  clear,  reso- 
nant voice,  never  sinking  into  an  inau- 
dible whisper,  and  never  rising  into  an 
ear-piercing  scream,  its  tones  always  ex- 
actly adapted  to  the  spirit  of  the  words, 
—  that  spare  form,  wasted  by  the  severe 
study  of  many  years,  which  but  a  mo- 


ment before  was  stretched  in  languid 
ease  on  the  Treasury  benches,  now  dilat- 
ed with  emotion, —  that  careworn  coun- 
tenance inspired  with  great  thoughts : 
what  pen  or  pencil  can  do  justice  to 
these  ? 

If  any  one  of  that  waiting  audience  has 
been  impatiently  expectant  of  some  words 
equal  to  this  crisis,  some  fearless  and  man- 
ly statement  of  the  real  question  at  issue, 
his  wish  shall  be  soon  and  most  fully  grat- 
ified. Listen  to  his  opening  sentence, 
which  contains  the  key-note  to  his  whole 
speech :  —  "It  appears  to  be  the  determi- 
nation of  one  moiety  of  this  House  that 
there  shall  be  no  debate  upon  the  consti- 
tutional principles  which  are  involved  in 
this  question  ;  and  I  must  say,  that,  con- 
sidering that  gentlemen  opposite  are  up- 
on this  occasion  the  partisans  of  a  gigan- 
tic innovation, —  the  most  gigantic  and 
the  most  dangerous  that  has  been  at- 
tempted in  modern  times,  —  I  may  com- 
pliment them  upon  the  prudence  they 
show  in  resolving  to  be  its  silent  parti- 
sans." After  this  emphatic  exordium, 
which  electrified  the  House,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  such  a  tempest  of  applause  as 
for  some  time  to  drown  the  voice  of  the 
speaker,  he  proceeded  at  once  to  demon- 
strate the  utter  folly  and  error  of  con- 
tending that  the  action  of  the  Lords  was 
supported  or  justified  by  any  precedent. 
Of  course,  as  a  member  of  the  Cabinet, 
he  gave  his  adhesion  to  the  resolutions 
before  the  House,  and  indorsed  the  speech 
of  the  Premier.  But,  from  first  to  last, 
he  treated  the  question  as  its  importance 
demanded,  as  critical  and  emergent,  not 
to  be  passed  by  in  silence,  nor  yet  to  be 
encountered  with  plausible  and  concilia- 
tory expedients.  He  reserved  to  him- 
self "  entire  freedom  to  adopt  any  mode 
•which  might  have  the  slightest  hope  of 
success,  for  vindicating  by  action  the 
rights  of  the  House." 

In  fact,  he  alone  of  all  the  speakers  of 
the  evening  rose  to  "  the  height  of  the 
great  argument."  He  alone  seemed  to 
feel  that  the  temporary  success  of  this  or 
that  party  or  faction  was  as  nothing  com- 
pared with  the  duty  of  settling  definitely 


676 


A  Field  Night  in  ike  House  of  Commons.         [December, 


and  for  all  posterity  this  conflict  of  rights 
between  the  two  Houses.  Surveying  the 
question  from  this  high  vantage-ground, 
what  wonder  that  in  dignity  and  gran- 
deur he  towered  above  his  fellows  ?  Here 
was  a  great  mind  grappling  with  a  great 
subject,  —  a  mind  above  temporary  ex- 
pedients for  present  success,  superior  to 
the  fear  of  possible  defeat.  To  denounce 
the  Conservatives  for  not  attacking  the 
Ministerial  resolutions  may  have  been  in- 
discreet. He  may  have  been  guilty  of 
an  apparent  breach  of  Parliamentary  eti- 
quette, when  he  practically  condemned 
the  passive  policy  of  the  Cabinet,  of  which 
he  was  himself  a  leading  member.  But 
may  we  not  pardon  the  natural  irritation 
produced  by  the  defeat  of  his  favorite 
measure,  in  view  of  the  noble  and  patriot- 
ic sentiments  of  his  closing  sentences  ? 

"  I  regard  the  whole  rights  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  as  they  have  been  handed 
down  to  us,  as  constituting  a  sacred  in- 
heritance, upon  which  I,  for  my  part,  will 
never  voluntarily  permit  any  intrusion  or 
plunder  to  be  made.  I  think  that  the 
very  first  of  our  duties,  anterior  to  the 
duty  of  dealing  with  any  legislative  meas- 
ure, and  higher  and  more  sacred  than 
any  such  duties,  high  and  sacred  though 
they  may  be,  is  to  maintain  intact  that 
precious  deposit." 

The  eifect  of  this  speech  was  indescrib- 
able. The  applause  with  which  he  was 
frequently  interrupted,  and  which  greet- 
ed him  as  he  took  his  seat,  was  such  as 
I  have  never  heard  in  a  deliberative  as- 
sembly. And  not  the  least  striking  feat- 
ure of  this  display  of  enthusiasm  was  that 
it  mainly  proceeded  from  the  extreme 
Liberal  wing  of  the  Ministerial  party,  with 
which  Mr.  Gladstone,  representing  that 
most  conservative  of  all  English  constitu- 
encies, Oxford  University,  had  hitherto 
been  by  no  means  popular.  For  several 
days  the  rumor  was  rife  that  the  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Exchequer  would  resign  his 
place  in  the  Cabinet,  and  be  the  leader 
of  the  Radicals !  But  Mr.  Gladstone  had 
other  views  of  his  duty,  and  probably  he 
was  never  more  firmly  intrenched  in  the 
confidence  of  the  nation,  and  more  influ- 


ential in  the  councils  of  the  Government, 
than  he  is  at  this  moment. 

Mr.  Gladstone  had  hardly  taken  his 
seat,  when  the  long  and  significant  si- 
lence of  the  Opposition  was  broken  by 
Mr.  Whiteside.  This  gentleman  repre- 
sents Dublin  University,  has  been  Attor- 
ney-General and  Solicitor- General  for 
Ireland,  and  was  one  of  the  most  able 
and  eloquent  defenders  of  O'Connell  and 
his  friends  in  1842.  He  is  said  to  be  the 
only  Irishman  in  public  life  who  holds  the 
traditions  of  the  great  Irish  orators,  —  the 
Grattans,  the  Currans,  and  the  Sheri- 
dans.  I  will  not  detain  my  readers  with 
even  a  brief  sketch  of  his  speech.  It  was 
very  severe  upon  Mr.  Gladstone,  very 
funny  at  the  expense  of  the  Radicals, 
and  very  complimentary  to  Lord  Palmer- 
ston.  As  a  whole,  it  was  an  admirable 
specimen  of  Irish  oratory.  In  the  elan 
with  which  the  speaker  leaped  to  his  feet 
and  dashed  at  once  into  his  subject,  full 
of  spirit  and  eager  for  the  fray,  in  his 
fierce  and  vehement  invective  and  the 
occasional  ferocity  of  his  attacks,  in  the 
fluency  and  fitness  of  his  language  and 
the  rapidity  of  his  utterance,  in  the  un- 
studied grace  and  sustained  energy  of  his 
manner,  it  was  easy  to  recognize  the  ele- 
ments of  that  irresistible  eloquence  by 
which  so  many  of  his  gifted  countrymen 
have  achieved  such  brilliant  triumphs  at 
the  forum  and  in  the  halls  of  the  debate. 

It  might  perhaps  heighten  the  eflTect  of 
the  picture,  if  I  were  to  describe  the  ap- 
pearance of  Mr.  Gladstone  during  the  de- 
livery of  this  fierce  Philippic,  —  the  con- 
tracted brow,  the  compressed  lip,  the  un- 
easy motion  from  side  to  side,  and  all  the 
other  customary  manifestations  of  anger, 
mortification,  and  conscious  defeat.  But 
if  my  sketch  be  dull,  it  shall  at  least  have 
the  homely  merit  of  being  truthful.  In 
point  of  fact,  the  whole  harangue  was 
lost  upon  Mr.  Gladstone ;  for  he  left  the 
House  immediately  after  making  his  own 
speech,  and  did  not  return  until  some 
time  after  Mr.  Whiteside  had  finished. 
In  all  probability  he  did  not  know  how 
unmercifully  he  had  been  handled  until 
he  read  his  "  Times  "  the  next  morning. 


1861.] 


A  Field  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons. 


677 


Six  more  speeches  on  the  Liberal  side, 
loud  in  praise  of  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer,  bitter  in  denunciation  of  the 
Conservatives,  and  by  no  means  sparing 
the  policy  of  the  Prime  Minister,  follow- 
ed in  quick  succession.  They  were  all 
brief,  pertinent,  and  spirited ;  with  which 
comprehensive  criticism  I  must  dismiss 
them.  Their  delivery  occupied  about 
two  hours,  and  many  members  availed 
themselves  of  this  opportunity  to  leave 
the  House  for  a  while.  Some  sauntered 
on  the  broad  stone  terrace  which  lines 
the  Thames.  Not  a  few  regaled  them- 
selves with  the  popular  Parliamentary 
beverage, —  sherry  and  soda-water;  and 
others,  who  had  resolutely  kept  their 
seats  since  the  opening  of  the  debate, 
rewarded  their  devotion  to  the  interests 
of  the  public  by  a  more  elaborate  re- 
past. Now  and  then  a  member  in  full 
evening  dress  would  lounge  into  the 
House,  with  that  air  of  perfect  self-sat- 
isfaction which  tells  of  a  good  dinner 
by  no  means  conducted  on  total -absti- 
nence principles. 

It  was  midnight  when  Mr.  Disraeli 
rose  to  address  the  House.  For  years 
the  pencil  of  "  Punch "  has  seemed  to 
take  particular  delight  in  sketching  for 
the  public  amusement  the  features  of  this 
well-known  novehst,  orator,  and  states- 
man. After  making  due  allowance  for 
the  conceded  license  of  caricature,  we 
must  admit  that  the  likeness  is  in  the 
main  correct,  and  any  one  familiar  with 
the  pages  of  "  Punch  "  would  recognize 
him  at  a  glance.  The  impression  which 
he  leaves  on  one  who  studies  his  features 
and  watches  his  bearing  is  not  agreeable. 
Tall,  thin,  and  quite  erect,  always  dress- 
ed with  scrupulous  care,  distant  and  re- 
served in  manner,  his  eye  dull,  his  lips 
wearing  habitually  a  half-scornful,  half- 
contemptuous  expression,  one  can  readi- 
ly believe  him  to  be  a  man  addicted  to 
bitter  enmities,  but  incapable  of  warm 
friendships. 

He  had  been  sitting,  as  his  manner  is, 
very  quietly  during  the  evening,  never 
moving  a  muscle  of  his  face,  save  when 
he  smiled  coldly  once  or  twice  at  the 


sharp  sallies  of  Whiteside,  or  spoke,  as  he 
did  very  rarely,  to  some  member  near 
him.  A  stranger  to  his  manner  would 
have  supposed  him  utterly  indifferent  to 
what  was  going  on  about  him.  Yet  it  is 
probable  that  no  member  of  the  House 
was  more  thoroughly  absorbed  in  the  de- 
bate or  watched  its  progress  with  deeper 
interest.  Excepting  his  political  ambition, 
Mr.  Disraeli  is  actuated  by  no  stronger 
passion  than  hatred  of  Mr.  Gladstone. 
To  have  been  a  warm  admirer  and  pro- 
tege of  Sir  Robert  Peel  would  have  laid 
a  sufficient  foundation  for  intense  person- 
al dishke.  But  Mr.  Disraeli  has  other 
and  greater  grievances  to  complain  of. 
This  is  not  the  place  to  enter  at  large 
into  the  history  of  the  political  rivalry 
between  these  eminent  men.  Enough  to 
say,  that  in  the  spring  of  1852  Mr.  Dis- 
raeli realized  the  dream  of  his  lifelong 
ambition  by  being  appointed  Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer,  in  the  Ministry  of  Lord 
Derby.  Late  in  the  same  year  he  brought 
forward  his  Budget,  which  he  defended  at 
great  length  and  with  all  his  ability.  This 
Budget,  and  the  arguments  by  which  it 
was  supported,  Mr.  Gladstone  —  who  had 
already  refused  to  take  the  place  in  the 
Derby  Cabinet  —  attacked  in  a  speech  of 
extraordinary  power,  demolishing  one  by 
one  the  positions  of  his  opponent,  rebuk- 
ing with  dignified  severity  the  license  of 
his  language,  and  calling  upon  the  House 
to  condemn  the  man  and  his  measures. 
Such  was  the  effect  of  this  speech  that 
the  Government  was  defeated  by  a  decid- 
ed majority.  Thus  dethroned,  Mr.  Dis- 
raeli had  the  additional  mortification  of 
seeing  his  victorious  opponent  seated  in 
his  vacant  chair.  For,  in  the  Ministry 
of  Lord  Aberdeen,  which  immediately 
succeeded,  Mr.  Gladstone  accepted  the 
appointment  of  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer. The  Budget  brought  forward 
by  the  new  Minister  took  by  surprise  even 
those  who  had  already  formed  the  high- 
est estimate  of  his  capacity;  and  the 
speech  in  which  he  defended  and  en- 
forced it  received  the  approval  of  Lord 
John  Russell,  in  the  well-known  and 
well -merited  compliment,  that  "it  con- 


676 


A  Field  Night  in  the  House  of  Commons.  [December, 


tained  the  ablest  expositions  of  the  true 
principles  of  finance  ever  delivered  by 
an  English  statesman."  Since  that  mem- 
orable defeat,  Disraeli  has  lost  no  oppor- 
tunity of  attacking  the  member  for  Ox- 
ford University.  To  weaken  his  won- 
derful ascendency  over  the  House  has 
seemed  to  be  the  wish  nearest  his  heart, 
and  the  signal  failure  which  has  thus 
far  attended  all  his  efforts  only  gives  a 
keener  edge  to  his  sarcasm  and  increases 
the  bitterness  of  his  spirit.  That  persis- 
tent and  inflexible  determination  which, 
from  a  fashionable  novelist,  has  raised 
him  to  the  dignity  of  leader  of  the  Con- 
servative party  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, that  unsparing  and  cold-blooded 
malignity  which  poisoned  the  last  days  of 
Sir  Robert  Peel,  and  those  powers  of 
wit  and  ridicule  which  make  him  so  for- 
midable an  adversary,  have  all  been  im- 
pressed into  this  service. 

His  speech  this  evening  was  only  a 
further  illustration  of  his  controlling  de- 
sire to  enjoy  an  ample  and  adequate  re- 
venge for  past  defeats  ;  and,  undoubted- 
ly, Mr.  Disraeli  displayed  a  great  deal 
of  a  certain  kind  of  power.  He  was 
witty,  pungent,  caustic,  full  of  telling 
hits  which  repeatedly  convulsed  the  House 
with  laughter,  and  he  showed  singular 
dexterity  in  discovering  and  assailing 
the  weak  points  in  his  adversary's  argu- 
ment. Still,  it  was  a  painful  exhibition, 
bad  in  temper,  tone,  and  manner.  It 
was  too  plainly  the  attempt  of  an  unscru- 
pulous partisan  to  damage  a  personal  en- 
emy, rather  than  the  effort  of  a  states- 
man to  enlighten  and  convince  the  House 
and  the  nation.  It  was  unfair,  uncandid, 
and  logically  weak.  Its  only  possible 
effect  was  to  irritate  the  Liberals,  with- 
out materially  strengthening  the  position 
of  the  Conservatives.  When  "Dizzy** 
had  finished,  the  floor  was  claimed  by 
Lord  John  Russell  and  Mr.  Bright.  It 
was  sufficiently  evident  that  members, 
without  distinction  of  party,  desired  to 
hear  the  last-named  gentleman,  for  cries 


of  "  Bright,"  "  Bright,"  came  from  all 
parts  of  the  House.  The  member  for 
Birmingham  is  stout,  bluff,  and  hearty, 
looking  very  much  like  a  prosperous,  well- 
dressed  English  yeoman.  He  is  ac- 
knowledged to  be  the  best  declaimer  in 
the  House.  Piquant,  racy,  and  enter- 
taining, he  is  always  listened  to  with  in- 
terest and  pleasure  ;  but  somehow  he  la- 
bors under  the  prevalent  suspicion  of  be- 
ing insincere,  and  beyond  a  small  circle 
of  devoted  admirers  has  no  influence 
whatever  in  Parliament. 

To  the  manifest  discontent  of  the 
House,  the  Speaker  decided  that  the 
Honorable  Secretary  for  Foreign  Affairs 
was  entitled  to  the  floor.  Lord  John 
Russell  deserves  a  more  extended  his- 
torical and  personal  notice  than  the  le- 
gitimate limits  of  this  article  will  allow. 
But,  as  his  recent  elevation  to  the  peer- 
age has  led  the  English  press  to  give  a 
review  of  his  political  antecedents,  and 
as  these  articles  have  been  copied  quite 
generally  into  our  own  leading  newspa- 
pers, it  may  be  fairly  presumed  that  most 
of  my  readers  are  familiar  with  the  prom- 
inent incidents  in  his  long  and  honorable 
public  career.  As  a  speaker  he  is  decid- 
edly prosy,  with  a  hesitating  utterance,  a 
monotonous  voice,  and  an  uninteresting 
manner.  Yet  he  is  always  heard  with 
respectful  attention  by  the  House,  in 
consideration  of  his  valuable  public  ser- 
vices, his  intrinsic  good  sense,  and  his 
unselfish  patriotism.  On  the  question  at 
issue,  he  took  ground  midway  between 
Lord  Palmerston  and  Mr.  Gladstone. 

It  was  now  about  two,  A.  m.  Since 
the  commencement  of  the  debate  eigh- 
teen members  had  addressed  the  House. 
At  this  point  a  motion  prevailed  to  ad- 
journ until  noon  of  the  same  day. 

On  the  reopening  of  the  debate  at  that 
hour,  Mr.  Bright  and  a  few  other  mem- 
bers gave  their  views  upon  the  resolutions 
of  the  Premier,  and  the  final  vote  was 
then  taken  with  the  result  already  indi- 
cated. 


1861.]  A  Legend  of  the  Lake,  679 


A  LEGEND   OF  THE   LAKE. 

Should  you  go  to  Centre-Harbor, 
As  haply  you  some  time  may, 

Sailing  up  the  Winnipisauke, 
From  the  hills  of  Alton  Bay, — 

Into  the  heart  of  the  highlands, 

Into  the  north-wind  free, 
Through  the  rising  and  vanishing  islands, 

Over  the  mountain  sea, — 

To  the  little  hamlet  lying 

White  in  its  mountain-fold. 
Asleep  by  the  lake,  and  dreaming 

A  dream  that  is  never  told, — 

And  in  the  Red  Hill's  shadow 
Your  pilgrim  home  you  make, 

Where  the  chambers  open  to  sunrise. 
The  mountains  and  the  lake, — 

If  the  pleasant  picture  wearies. 
As  the  fairest  sometimes  will, 

And  the  weight  of  the  hills  lies  on  you, 
And  the  water  is  all  too  still,  — 

If  in  vain  the  peaks  of  Gunstock 

Redden  with  sunrise  fire. 
And  the  sky  and  the  purple  mountains 

And  the  sunset  islands  tire,  — 

If  you  turn  from  the  in-door  thrumming 
And  clatter  of  bowls  without. 

And  the  folly  that  goes  on  its  travels 
Bearing  the  city  about, — 

And  the  cares  you  left  behind  you 
Come  hunting  along  your  track, 

As  Blue-Cap  in  German  fable 
Rode  on  the  traveller's  pack, — 

Let  me  tell  you  a  tender  story 
Of  one  who  is  now  no  more, 

A  tale  to  haunt  like  a  spirit 
The  Winnipisauke  shore,  — 

Of  one  who  was  brave  and  gentle, 
And  strong  for  manly  strife, 


680  A  Legend  of  the  Lake.  [December, 

Riding  -vvitli  cheering  and  music 
Into  the  tourney  of  life. 

Faltering  and  falling  midway 

In  the  Tempter's  subtle  snare, 
The  chains  of  an  evil  habit 

He  bowed  himself  to  bear. 

Over  his  fresh,  young  manhood 

The  bestial  veil  was  flung,  — 
The  curse  of  the  wine  of  Circe, 

The  spell  her  weavers  sung. 

Yearly  did  hill-  and  lake-side 

Their  summer  idyls  frame  ; 
Alone  in  his  darkened  dwelling, 

He  hid  his  face  for  shame. 

The  music  of  life's  great  marches 

Sounded  for  him  in  vain  ; 
The  voices  of  human  duty 

Smote  on  his  ear  like  pain. 

In  vain  over  island  and  water 

The  curtains  of  sunset  swung ; 
In  vain  on  the  beautiful  mountains 

The  pictures  of  God  were  hung. 

The  wretched  years  crept  onward, 

Each  sadder  than  the  last ; 
All  the  bloom  of  life  fell  from  him, 

All  the  freshness  and  greenness  passed. 

But  deep  in  his  heart  forever 

And  unprofaned  he  kept 
The  love  of  his  saintly  Mother, 

Who  in  the  grave-yard  slept. 

His  house  had  no  pleasant  pictures ; 

Its  comfortless  walls  were  bare ; 
But  the  riches  of  earth  and  ocean 

Could  not  purchase  his  Mother's  Chair,  — 

The  old  chair,  quaintly  carven, 

With  oaken  arms  outspread, 
Whereby,  in  the  long  gone  twilights, 

His  childish  prayers  were  said. 

For  thence,  in  his  lone  night-watches, 

By  moon  or  starlight  dim, 
A  face  full  of  love  and  pity 

And  tenderness  looked  on  him. 


1861.]  A  Legend  of  the  Lake,  681 

And  oft,  as  the  grieving  presence 

Sat  in  his  mother's  chair, 
The  groan  of  his  self-upbraiding 

Grew  into  wordless  prayer. 

At  last,  in  the  moonless  midnight, 

The  summoning  angel  came, 
Severe  in  his  pity,  touching 

The  house  with  fingers  of  flame. 

The  red  light  flashed  from  its  windows 

And  flared  from  its  sinking  roof ; 
And  baffled  and  awed  before  it. 

The  villagers  stood  aloof. 

They  shrank  from  the  falling  rafters. 

They  turned  from  the  furnace-glare ; 
But  its  tenant  cried,  "  God  help  me  ! 

I  must  save  my  mother's  chair." 

Under  the  blazing  portal, 

Over  the  floor  of  fire, 
He  seemed,  in  the  terrible  splendor, 

A  martyr  on  his  pyre  I 

In  his  face  the  mad  flames  smote  him 

And  stung  him  on  either  side ; 
But  he  clung  to  the  sacred  relic, — 

By  his  mother's  chair  he  died  ! 

O  mother,  with  human  yearnings  ! 

O  saint,  by  the  altar-stairs  ! 
Shall  not  the  dear  God  give  thee 

The  child  of  thy  many  prayers  ? 

O  Christ !  by  whom  the  loving. 

Though  erring,  are  forgiven, 
Hast  Thou  for  him  no  refuge, 

No  quiet  place  in  heaven  ? 

Give  palms  to  Thy  strong  martyrs, 

And  crown  Thy  saints  with  gold, 
But  let  the  mother  welcome 

Her  lost  one  to  Thy  fold  ! 


VOL.  vni.  44 


682 


Agnes  of  Sorrento. 


[December, 


AGNES   OF   SORRENTO. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
ELSIE   PUSHES   HER   SCHEME. 

The  good  Father  Antonio  returned 
from  his  conference  with  the  cavalier 
with  many  subjects  for  grave  pondering. 
This  man,  as  he  conjectured,  so  far  from 
being  an  enemy  either  of  Church  or 
State,  was  in  fact  in  many  respects  in 
the  same  position  with  his  revered  mas- 
ter,—  as  nearly  so  as  the  position  of  a 
layman  was  likely  to  resemble  that  of  an 
ecclesiastic.  His  denial  of  the  Visible 
Church,  as  represented  by  the  Pope  and 
Cardinals,  sprang  not  from  an  irreverent, 
but  from  a  reverent  spirit.  To  accept  them 
as  exponents  of  Christ  and  Christianity 
was  to  blaspheme  and  traduce  both,  and 
therefore  he  only  could  be  counted  in 
the  highest  degree  Christian  who  stood 
most  completely  opposed  to  them  in  spirit 
and  practice. 

His  kind  and  fatherly  heart  was  inter- 
ested in  the  brave  young  nobleman.  He 
sympathized  fully  with  the  situation  in 
which  he  stood,  and  he  even  wished  suc- 
cess to  his  love ;  but  then  how  was  he  to 
help  him  with  Agnes,  and  above  all  with 
her  old  grandmother,  without  entering  on 
the  awful  task  of  condemning  and  expos- 
ing that  sacred  authority  which  all  the 
Church  had  so  many  years  been  taught 
to  regard  as  infallibly  inspired?  Long 
had  all  the  truly  spiritual  members  of  the 
Church  who  gave  ear  to  the  teachings  of 
Savonarola  felt  that  the  nearer  they  fol- 
lowed Christ  the  more  open  was  their 
growing  antagonism  to  the  Pope  and  the 
Cardinals ;  but  still  they  hung  back  from 
the  responsibility  of  inviting  the  people 
to  an  open  revolt. 

Father  Antonio  felt  his  soul  deeply 
stirred  with  the  news  of  the  excommuni- 
cation of  his  saintly  master ;  and  he  mar- 
velled, as  he  tossed  on  his  restless  bed 
through  the  night,  how  he  was  to  meet 
the  storm.  He  might  have  known,  had 
he  been  able  to  look  into  a  crowded  as- 


sembly in  Florence  about  this  time,  when 
the  unterrified  monk  thus  met  the  news 
of  his  excommunication :  — 

"  There  have  come  decrees  from  Rome, 
have  there  ?  They  call  me  a  son  of  per- 
dition. Well,  thus  may  you  answer  :  — 
He  to  whom  you  give  this  name  hath  nei- 
ther favorites  nor  concubines,  but  gives 
himself  solely  to  preaching  Christ.  His 
spiritual  sons  and  daughters,  those  who 
listen  to  his  doctrine,  do  not  pass  their 
time  in  infamous  practices.  They  con- 
fess, they  receive  the  communion,  they 
live  honestly.  This  man  gives  himself 
up  to  exalt  the  Church  of  Christ:  you 
to  destroy  it.  The  time  approaches  for 
opening  the  secret  chamber :  we  will 
give  but  one  turn  of  the  key,  and  there 
will  come  out  thence  such  an  infection, 
such  a  stench  of  this  city  of  Rome,  that 
the  odor  shall  spread  through  all  Chris- 
tendom, and  all  the  world  shall  be  sick- 
ened." 

But  Father  Antonio  was  of  himself 
wholly  unable  to  come  to  such  a  cour- 
ageous result,  though  capable  of  follow- 
ing to  the  death  the  master  who  should 
do  it  for  him.  His  was  the  true  artist 
nature,  as  unfit  to  deal  with  rough  hu- 
man forces  as  a  bird  that  flies  through 
the  air  is  unfitted  to  a  hand-to-hand 
grapple  with  the  armed  forces  of  the 
lower  world.  There  is  strength  in  these 
artist  natures.  Curious  computations  have 
been  made  of  the  immense  muscular  pow- 
er that  is  brought  into  exercise  when  a 
swallow  skims  so  smoothly  through  the 
blue  sky ;  but  the  strength  is  of  a  kind 
unadapted  to  mundane  uses,  and  needs 
the  ether  for  its  display.  Father  Anto- 
nio could  create  the  beautiful ;  he  could 
warm,  could  elevate,  could  comfort ;  and 
when  a  stronger  nature  went  before  him, 
he  could  follow  with  an  unquestioning 
tenderness  of  devotion:  but  he  wanted 
the  sharp,  downright  power  of  mind  that 
could  cut  and  cleave  its  way  through  the 
rubbish  of  the  past,  when  its  institutions, 


1861.] 


Agnes  of  Sorrento. 


683 


come  to  be  a  loathsome  prison.  Besides, 
the  true  artist  has  ever  an  enchanted  isl- 
and of  his  own ;  and  when  this  world  per- 
plexes and  wearies  him,  he  can  sail  far 
away  and  lay  his  soul  down  to  rest,  as 
Cytherea  bore  the  sleeping  Ascanius  far 
from  the  din  of  battle,  to  sleep  on  flowers 
and  breathe  the  odor  of  a  hundred  undy- 
ing altars  to  Beauty. 

Therefore,  after  a  restless  night,  the 
good  monk  arose  in  the  first  purple  of 
the  dawn,  and  instinctively  betook  him  to 
a  review  of  his  drawings  for  the  shrine, 
as  a  refuge  from  troubled  thought.  He 
took  his  sketch  of  the  Madonna  and  Child 
into  the  morning  twilight  and  began  med- 
itating thereon,  while  the  clouds  that 
lined  the  horizon  were  glowing  rosy 
purple  and  violet  with  the  approaching 
day. 

"  See  there ! "  he  said  to  himself,  "  yon- 
der clouds  have  exactly  the  rosy  purple 
of  the  cyclamen  which  my  little  Agnes 
loves  so  much ;  —  yes,  I  am  resolved  that 
this  cloud  on  which  our  Mother  standeth 
shall  be  of  a  cyclamen  color.  And  there 
is  that  star,  like  as  it  looked  yesterday 
evening,  when  I  mused  upon  it.  Me- 
thought  I  could  see  our  Lady's  clear 
brow,  and  the  radiance  of  her  face,  and 
I  prayed  that  some  little  power  might 
be  given  to  show  forth  that  which  trans- 
ports me." 

And  as  the  monk  plied  his  pencil, 
touching  here  and  there,  and  elaborating 
the  outlines  of  his  drawing,  he  sang, — 

"  Ave,  Maris  Stella, 
Dei  mater  alma, 
Atque  semper  virgo, 
Felix  coeli  porta ! 

"  Virgo  singularis, 
Inter  omnes  mitis, 
Nos  culpis  solutos 
Mites  fac  et  castes ! 

"  Vitam  praesta  puram. 
Iter  para  tutum, 
Ut  videntes  Jesum 
Semper  coUaetemur!  "  * 

*  Hail,  thou  Star  of  Ocean, 
Thou  forever  virgin, 
Mother  of  the  Lord ! 


As  the  monk  sang,  Agnes  soon  ap- 
peared at  the  door. 

"  Ah,  my  little  bird,  you  are  there  !  '* 
he  said,  looking  up. 

"  Yes,"  said  Agnes,  coming  forward, 
and  looking  over   his  shoulder  at  his  ,j 
work. 

"  Did  you  find  that  young  sculptor  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  That  I  did,  —  a  brave  boy,  too,  who 
will  row  down  the  coast  and  dig  us  mar- 
ble from  an  old  heathen  temple,  which 
we  will  baptize  into  the  name  of  Christ 
and  his  Mother." 

"  Pietro  was  always  a  good  boy,"  said 
Agnes. 

"  Stay,"  said  the  monk,  stepping  into 
his  little  sleeping-room  ;  "  he  sent  you 
this  lily ;  see,  I  havd  kept  it  in  water  all 
night." 

"  Poor  Pietro,  that  was  good  of  him  I " 
said  Agnes.  "  I  would  thank  him,  if  I 
could.  But,  uncle,"  she  added,  in  a  hesi- 
tating voice,  "  did  you  see  anything  of 
that  —  other  one  ?  " 

"That  I  did,  child,  —  and  talked  long 
with  him." 

"  Ah,  uncle,  is  there  any  hope  for 
him  ?  " 

"Yes,  there  is  hope,  —  great  hope. 
In  fact,  he  has  promised  to  receive  me 
again,  and  I  have  hopes  of  leading  him 
to  the  sacrament  of  confession,  and  after' 
that" 

"  And  then  the  Pope  will  forgive  him  1 " 
said  Agnes,  joyfully. 

The  face  of  the  monk  suddenly  fell ; 
he  was  silent,  and  went  on  retouching 
his  drawing. 

"  Do  you  not  think  he  will  ?  "  said  Ag- 
nes, earnestly.    "  You  said  the  Church 

Blessed  gate  of  Heaven, 
Take  our  heart's  devotion! 

Virgin  one  and  only. 
Meekest  'mid  them  all, 
From  our  sins  set  free, 
Make  us  pure  like  thee, 
Freed  from  passion's  thrall ! 

Grant  that  in  pure  living. 
Through  safe  paths  below, 
Forever  seeing  Jesus, 
Rejoicing  we  may  go! 


684 


Agnes  of  SoiTento. 


[December, 


was  ever  ready  to  receive  the  repent- 
ant." 

"  The  True  Church  will  receive  him," 
said  the  monk,  evasively ;  "  yes,  my  little 
one,  there  is  no  doubt  of  it." 

"  And  it  is  not  true  that  he  is  captain 
of  a  band  of  robbers  in  the  mountains  ?  " 
said  Agnes.  "  May  I  tell  Father  Fran- 
cesco that  it  is  not  so  ?  " 

"  Child,  this  young  man  hath  suffered 
a  grievous  wrong  and  injustice ;  for  he 
is  lord  of  an  ancient  and  noble  estate, 
out  of  which  he  hath  been  driven  by  the 
cruel  injustice  of  a  most  wicked  and 
abominable  man,  the  Duke  di  Valenti- 
nos,*  who  hath  caused  the  death  of  his 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  ravaged  the 
country  around  with  fire  and  sword,  so 
that  he  hath  been  driven  with  his  retain- 
ers to  a  fortress  in  the  mountains." 

"  But,"  said  Agnes,  with  flushed  cheeks, 
"  why  does  not  our  blessed  Father  ex- 
communicate this  wicked  duke  ?  Surely 
this  knight  hath  erred ;  instead  of  taking 
refuge  in  the  mountains,  he  ought  to 
have  fled  with  his  followers  to  Rome, 
where  the  dear  Father  of  the  Church 
hath  a  house  for  all  the  oppressed.  It 
must  be  so  lovely  to  be  the  father  of  all 
men,  and  to  take  in  and  comfort  all  those 
who  are  distressed  and  sorrowful,  and 
to  right  the  wrongs  of  all  that  are  op- 
pressed, as  our  dear  Father  at  Rome 
doth!" 

The  monk  looked  up  at  Agnes's  clear 
glowing  face  with  a  sort  of  wondering 
pity. 

"  Dear  little  child,"  he  said,  "  there  is 
a  Jerusalem  above  which  is  mother  of 
us  all,  and  these  things  are  done  there. 

*  Ccelestis  urbs  Jerusalem, 
Beata  pacis  visio, 
Quae  celsa  de  viventibus 
Saxis  ad  astra  tolleris, 
Sponsaeque  ritu  cingeris 
Mille  angelorum  millibus! '  " 

The  face  of  the  monk  glowed  as  he  re- 
peated this  ancient  hymn  of  the  Church,  f 

*  Caesar  Borgia  was  created  Due  de  Valen- 
tinois  by  Louis  XII.  of  France. 

t  This  very  ancient  hymn  is  the  fountain- 
head  from  which  through  various  languages 


as  if  the  remembrance  of  that  general  as- 
sembly and  church  of  the  first-born  gave 
him  comfort  in  his  depression. 

Agnes  felt  perplexed,  and  looked  ear- 
nestly at  her  uncle  as  he  stooped  over  his 
drawing,  and  saw  that  there  were  deep 
lines  of  anxiety  on  his  usually  clear,  pla- 
cid face,  —  a  look  as  of  one  who  strug- 
gles mentally  with  some  untold  trouble. 

"  Uncle,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "  may 
I  tell  Father  Francesco  what  you  have 
been  telling  me  of  this  young  man  ?  " 

"No,  my  little  one, — it  were  not  best. 
In  fact,  dear  child,  there  be  many  things 
in  his  case  impossible  to  explain,  even  to 
you  ;  —  but  he  is  not  so  altogether  hope- 
less as  you  thought ;  in  truth,  I  have  great 
hopes  of  him.  I  have  admonished  him 
to  come  here  no  more,  but  I  shall  see 
him  again  this  evening." 

Agnes  wondered  at  the  heaviness  of 
her  own  Httle  heart,  as  her  kind  old  un- 
cle spoke  of  his  coming  there  no  more. 
Awhile  ago  she  dreaded  his  visits  as  a 
most  fearful  temptation,  and  thought  per- 
haps he  might  come  at  any  hour ;  now 
she  was  sure  he  would  not,  and  it  was  as- 
tonishing what  a  weight  fell  upon  her. 

"  Why  am  I  not  thankful  ?  "  she  asked 
herself.  "  Why  am  I  not  joyful  ?  Why 
should  I  wish  to  see  him  again,  when  I 
should  only  be  tempted  to  sinful  thoughts, 
and  when  my  dear  uncle,  who  can  do  so 
much  for  him,  has  his  soul  in  charge  ? 
And  what  is  this  which  is  so  strange  in 
his  case  ?  There  is  some  mystery,  after 
all,  —  something,  perhaps,  which  I  ought 
not  to  wish  to  know.  Ah,  how  little  can 
we  know  of  this  great  wicked  world,  and 
of  the  reasons  which  our  superiors  give 
for  their  conduct !  It  is  ours  humbly  to 
obey,  without  a  question  or  a  doubt.  Ho- 
ly Mother,  may  I  not  sin  through  a  vain 
curiosity  or  self-will !  May  I  ever  say,  as 
thou  didst,  '  Behold  the  handmaid  of  the 
Lord  !  be  it  unto  me  according  to  His 
word!'" 

have  trickled  the  various  hymns  of  the  Celes- 
tial City,  such  as  — 

"  Jerusalem,  my  happy  home !  " 
and  Quarles's  — 

"  0  mother  dear,  Jerusalem !  " 


1861.] 


Agnes  of  Sorrento. 


G85 


And  Agnes  went  about  her  morning 
devotions  with  fervent  zeal,  and  did  not 
see  the  monk  as  he  dropped  the  pencil, 
and,  covering  his  face  with  his  robe,  seem- 
ed to  wrestle  in  some  agony  of  prayer. 

"  Shepherd  of  Israel,"  he  said,  "  why 
hast  Thou  forgotten  this  vine  of  Thy  plant- 
ing? The  boar  out  of  the  wood  doth 
•waste  it,  the  wild  beast  of  the  field  doth 
devour  it.  Dogs  have  encompassed  Thy 
beloved ;  the  assembly  of  the  violent  have 
surrounded  him.  How  long,  O  Lord, 
holy  and  true,  dost  Thou  not  judge  and 
avenge  ?  " 

"  Now,  really,  brother,"  said  Elsie,  com- 
ing towards  him,  and  interrupting  his  med- 
itations in  her  bustling,  business  way, 
yet  speaking  in  a  low  tone  that  Agnes 
should  not  hear, — "  I  want  you  to  help  me 
with  this  child  in  a  good  common-sense 
fashion :  none  of  your  high-flying  notions 
about  saints  and  angels,  but  a  little  good 
common  talk  for  every-day  people  that 
have  their  bread  and  salt  to  look  after. 
The  fact  is,  brother,  this  girl  must  be 
married.  I  went  last  night  to  talk  with 
Antonio's  mother,  and  the  way  is  all  open 
as  well  as  any  living  girl  could  desire. 
Antonio  is  a  trifle  slow,  and  the  high- 
flying hussies  call  him  stupid ;  but  his 
mother  says  a  better  son  never  breathed, 
and  he  is  as  obedient  to  all  her  orders 
now  as  when  he  was  three  years  old. 
And  she  has  laid  up  plenty  of  household 
stufi*  for  him,  and  good  hard  gold  pieces 
to  boot :  she  let  me  count  them  my- 
self, and  I  showed  her  that  which  I  had 
scraped  together,  and  she  counted  it,  and 
we  agreed  that  the  children  that  come 
of  such  a  marriage  would  come  into  the 
world  with  something  to  stand  on.  Now 
Agnes  is  fond  of  you,  brother,  and  per- 
haps it  would  be  well  for  you  to  broach 
the  subject.  The  fact  is,  when  I  begin 
to  talk,  she  gets  her  arms  round  my  old 
neck  and  falls  to  weeping  and  kissing  me 
at  such  a  rate  as  makes  a  fool  of  me.  If 
the  child  would  only  be  rebellious,  one 
could  do  something;  but  this  love  takes 
all  the  stifi'ness  out  of  one's  joints  ;  and 
she  tells  me  she  never  wants  a  husband, 
and  she  will  be  content  to  live  with  me 


all  her  life.  The  saints  know  it  is  n't  for 
my  happiness  to  put  her  out  of  my  old 
arms ;  but  I  can't  last  forever,  —  my  old 
back  grows  weaker  every  year ;  and 
Antonio  has  strong  arms  to  defend  her 
from  all  these  roystering  fellows  who 
fear  neither  God  nor  man,  and  swoop  up 
young  maids  as  kites  do  chickens.  And 
then  he  is  as  gentle  and  manageable  as 
a  this-year  ox ;  Agnes  can  lead  him  by 
the  horn,  —  she  will  be  a  perfect  queen 
over  him ;  for  he  has  been  brought  up  to 
mind  the  women." 

"Well,  sister,"  said  the  monk,  "hath 
our  little  maid  any  acquaintance  with 
this  man  ?  Have  they  ever  spoken  to- 
gether ?  " 

"Not  much.  I  have  never  brought 
them  to  a  very  close  acquaintance ;  and 
that  is  what  is  to  be  done.  Antonio  is 
not  much  of  a  talker ;  to  tell  the  truth, 
he  does  not  know  as  much  to  say  as  our 
Agnes  :  but  the  man's  place  is  not  to  say 
fine  things,  but  to  do  the  hard  work  that 
shall  support  the  household." 

"  Then  Agnes  hath  not  even  seen 
him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  at  different  times  I  have  bid  her 
regard  him,  and  said  to  her,  '  There  goes 
a  proper  man  and  a  good  Christian,  —  a 
man  who  minds  his  work  and  is  obedient 
to  his  old  mother :  such  a  man  wUl  make 
a  right  good  husband  for  some  girl  some 
day.' " 

"  And  did  you  ever  see  that  her  eye 
followed  him  with  pleasure  ?  " 

"  No,  neither  him  nor  any  other  man, 
for  my  little  Agnes  hath  no  thought  of 
that  kind ;  but,  once  married,  she  will 
like  him  fast  enough.  All  I  want  is  to 
have  you  begin  the  subject,  and  get  it 
into  her  head  a  little." 

Father  Antonio  was  puzzled  how  to 
meet  this  direct  urgency  of  his  sister. 
He  could  not  explain  to  her  his  own  pri- 
vate reasons  for  believing  that  any  such 
attempt  would  be  utterly  vain,  and  only 
bring  needless  distress  on  his  little  favor* 
ite.     He  therefore  answered, — 

"  My  good  sister,  all  such  thoughts  lie 
so  far  out  of  the  sphere  of  us  monks,  that 
you  could  not  choose  a  worse  person  for 


686 


Agnes  of  Sorrento, 


[December, 


such  an  errand.  I  have  never  had  any 
communings  with  the  child  than  touch- 
ing the  beautiful  things  of  my  art,  and 
concerning  hymns  and  prayers  and  the 
lovely  world  of  saints  and  angels,  where 
they  neither  marry  nor  are  given  in  mar- 
riage ;  and  so  I  should  only  spoil  your  en- 
terprise, if  I  should  put  my  unskilful  hand 
to  it." 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  Elsie,  "  don't  you 
approve  of  my  plan  ?  " 

"  I  should  approve  of  anything  that 
would  make  our  dear  little  one  safe  and 
happy,  but  I  would  not  force  the  matter 
against  her  inclinations.  You  will  always 
regret  it,  if  you  make  so  good  a  child  shed 
one  needless  tear.  After  all,  sister,  what 
need  of  haste  ?  'T  is  a  young  bird  yet. 
Why  push  it  out  of  the  nest  ?  When 
once  it  is  gone,  you  will  never  get  it 
back.  Let  the  pretty  one  have  her  lit- 
tle day  to  play  and  sing  and  be  happy. 
Does  she  not  make  this  garden  a  sort 
of  Paradise  with  her  little  ways  and  her 
sweet  words  ?  Now,  my  sister,  these  all 
belong  to  you ;  but,  once  she  is  given  to 
another,  there  is  no  saying  what  may 
come.  One  thing  only  may  you  count 
on  with  certainty :  that  these  dear  days, 
when  she  is  all  day  by  your  side  and 
sleeps  in  your  bosom  all  night,  are  over,  — 
she  will  belong  to  you  no  more,  but  to  a 
strange  man  who  hath  neither  toiled  nor 
wrought  for  her,  and  all  her  pretty  ways 
and  dutiful  thoughts  must  be  for  him." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  said  Elsie, 
with  a  sudden  wrench  of  that  jealous  love 
which  is  ever  natural  to  strong,  passion- 
ate natures.  "  I  'm  sure  it  is  n't  for  my 
own  sake  I  urge  this.  I  grudge  him  the 
girl.  After  all,  he  is  but  a  stupid  head. 
What  has  he  ever  done,  that  such  good- 
fortune  should  befall  him  ?  He  ought  to 
fall  down  and  kiss  the  dust  of  my  shoes 
for  such  a  gift,  and  I  doubt  me  much  if 
he  will  ever  think  to  do  it.  These  men 
think  nothing  too  good  for  them.  I  be- 
lieve, if  one  of  the  crowned  saints  in 
heaven  were  offered  them  to  wife,  they 
would  think  it  all  quite  natural,  and  not 
a  whit  less  than  their  requirings." 

"  Well,  then,  sister,"  said  the  monk. 


soothingly,  "  why  press  this  matter  ?  why 
hurry  ?  The  poor  little  child  is  young ; 
let  her  frisk  like  a  lamb,  and  dance  like 
a  butterfly,  and  sing  her  hymns  every 
day  like  a  bright  bird.  Surely  the  Apos- 
tle saith,  *He  that  giveth  his  maid  in  mar- 
riage doeth  well,  but  he  that  giveth  her 
not  doeth  better.' " 

"  But  I  have  opened  the  subject  al- 
ready to  old  Meta,"  said  Elsie ;  "  and  if 
I  don't  pursue  it,  she  will  take  it  into 
her  head  that  her  son  is  lightly  regarded, 
and  then  her  back  will  be  up,  and  one 
may  lose  the  chance ;  and  on  the  whole, 
considering  the  money  and  the  fellow, 
I  don't  know  a  safer  way  to  settle  the 
girl." 

"  Well,  sister,  as  I  have  remarked," 
said  the  monk,  "  I  could  not  order  my 
speech  to  propose  anything  of  this  kind 
to  a  young  maid ;  I  should  so  bungle  that 
I  might  spoil  all.  You  must  even  pro- 
pose it  yourself." 

"I  would  not  have  undertaken  it,** 
said  Elsie,  "  had  I  not  been  frightened 
by  that  hook-nosed  old  kite  of  a  cava- 
lier that  has  been  sailing  and  perching 
round.  We  are  two  lone  women  here, 
and  the  times  are  unsettled,  and  one 
never  knows,  that  hath  so  fair  a  prize, 
but  she  may  be  carried  off,  and  then 
no  redress  from  any  quarter." 

"  You  might  lodge  her  in  the  con- 
vent," said  the  monk. 

"  Yes,  and  then,  the  first  thing  I  should 
know,  they  would  have  got  her  away  from 
me  entirely.  I  have  been  well  pleased 
to  have  her  much  with  the  sisters  hither- 
to, because  it  kept  her  from  hearing  the 
foolish  talk  of  girls  and  gallants,  —  and 
such  a  flower  would  have  had  every  wasp 
and  bee  buzzing  round  it.  But  now  the 
time  is  coming  to  marry  her,  I  much  doubt 
these  nuns.  There  's  old  Jocunda  is  a 
sensible  woman,  who  knew  something  of 
the  world  before  she  went  there,  —  but 
the  Mother  Theresa  knows  no  more  than 
a  baby ;  and  they  would  take  her  in,  and 
make  her  as  white  and  as  thin  as  that 
moon  yonder  now  the  sun  has  risen ;  and 
little  good  should  I  have  of  her,  for  I 
have  no  vocation  for  the  convent,  —  it 


1861.] 


Agnes  of  Sorrento. 


687 


Would  kill  me  in  a  week.  No,  —  she  has 
seen  enough  of  the  convent  for  the  pres- 
ent. I  will  even  take  the  risk  of  watch- 
ing her  myself.  Little  has  this  gallant 
seen  of  her,  though  he  has  tried  hard 
enough !  But  to-day  I  may  venture  to 
take  her  down  with  me." 

Father  Antonio  felt  a  little  conscience- 
smitten  in  listening  to  these  triumphant 
assertions  of  old  Elsie ;  for  he  knew  that 
she  would  pour  all  her  vials  of  wrath  on 
his  head,  did  she  know,  that,  owing  to  his 
absence  from  his  little  charge,  the  dread- 
ed invader  had  managed  to  have  two 
interviews  with  her  grandchild,  on  the 
very  spot  that  Elsie  deemed  the  fortress 
of  security ;  but  he  wisely  kept  his  own 
counsel,  believing  in  the  eternal  value 
of  silence.  In  truth,  the  gentle  monk 
lived  so  much  in  the  unreal  and  celestial 
world  of  Beauty,  that  he  was  by  no  means 
a  skilful  guide  for  the  passes  of  common 
life.  Love,  other  than  that  ethereal  kind 
which  aspires  towards  Paradise,  was  a 
stranger  to  his  thoughts,  and  he  con- 
stantly erred  in  attributing  to  other  peo- 
ple natures  and  purposes  as  unworldly 
and  spiritual  as  his  own.  Thus  had  he 
fallen,  in  his  utter  simplicity,  into  the 
attitude  of  a  go-between  protecting  the 
advances  of  a  young  lover  with  the  shad- 
ow of  his  monk's  gown,  and  he  became 
awkwardly  conscious,  that,  if  Elsie  should 
find  out  the  whole  truth,  there  would  be 
no  possibility  of  convincing  her  that  what 
had  been  done  in  such  sacred  simplicity 
on  all  sides  was  not  the  basest  manoeuv- 
ring. 

Elsie  took  Agnes  down  with  her  to  the 
old  stand  in  the  gateway  of  the  town.  On 
their  way,  as  had  probably  been  arran- 
ged, Antonio  met  them.  We  may  have 
introduced  him  to  the  reader  before,  who 
likely  enough  has  forgotten  by  this  time 
our  portraiture ;  so  we  shall  say  again, 
that  the  man  was  past  thirty,  tall,  straight, 
well-made,  even  to  the  tapering  of  his 
well -formed  limbs,  as  are  the  generali- 
ty of  the  peasantry  of  that  favored  re- 
gion. His  teeth  were  white  as  sea-pearl ; 
his  cheek,  though  swarthy,  had  a  deep, 
healthy  flush ;  and  his  great  velvet  black 


eyes  looked  straight  out  from  under  their 
long  silky  lashes,  just  as  do  the  eyes  of 
the  beautiful  oxen  of  his  country,  with 
a  languid,  changeless  tranquillity,  betok- 
ening a  good  digestion,  and  a  well-fed, 
kindly  animal  nature.  He  was  evidently 
a  creature  that  had  been  nourished  on 
sweet  juices  and  developed  in  fair  pas- 
tures, under  genial  influences  of  sun  and 
weather,  —  one  that  would  draw  patiently 
in  harness,  if  required,  without  troubling 
his  handsome  head  how  he  came  there, 
and,  his  labor  being  done,  would  stretch 
his  healthy  body  to  rumination,  and  rest 
with  serene,  even  unreflecting  quietude. 

He  had  been  duly  lectured  by  his 
mother,  this  morning,  on  the  propriety 
of  commencing  his  wooing,  and  was  com- 
ing towards  them  with  a  bouquet  in  his 
hand. 

"  See  there,"  said  Elsie, — "  there  is  our 
young  neighbor  Antonio  coming  towards 
us.  There  is  a  youth  whom  I  am  willing 
you  should  speak  to,  —  none  of  your  ruf- 
fling gallants,  but  steady  as  an  ox  at  his 
work,  and  as  kind  at  the  crib.  Happy 
will  the  girl  be  that  gets  him  for  a  hus- 
band ! " 

Agnes  was  somewhat  troubled  and  sad- 
dened this  morning,  and  absorbed  in  cares 
quite  new  to  her  life  before  ;  but  her  na- 
ture was  ever  kindly  and  social,  and  it 
had  been  laid  under  so  many  restrictions 
by  her  grandmother's  close  method  of 
bringing  up,  that  it  was  always  ready  to 
rebound  in  favor  of  anybody  to  whom  she 
allowed  her  to  show  kindness.  So,  when 
the  young  man  stopped  and  shyly  reach- 
ed forth  to  her  a  knot  of  scarlet  poppies 
intermingled  with  bright  vetches  and  wild 
blue  larkspurs,  she  took  it  gi'aciously,  and, 
frankly  beaming  a  smile  into  his  face, 
said,  — 

"  Thank  you,  my  good  Antonio ! "  Then 
fastening  them  in  the  front  of  her  bodice, 
—  "  There,  they  are  beautiful ! "  she  said, 
looking  up  with  the  simple  satisfaction  of 
a  child. 

"  They  are  not  half  so  beautiful  as  you 
are,"  said  the  young  peasant;  "every- 
body likes  you." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  I  am  sure,"  said 


688 


Agnes  of  Sorrento, 


[December, 


Agnes.  "I  like  everybody,  as  far  as 
grandmamma  thinks  it  best." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Antonio, 
"  because  then  I  hope  you  will  like  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly,  I  do ;  grandmam- 
ma says  you  are  very  good,  and  I  like 
all  good  people." 

"  Well,  then,  pretty  Agnes,"  said  the 
young  man,  "  let  me  carry  your  basket." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  need  to;  it  does  not 
tire  me." 

"  But  I  should  like  to  do  something  for 
you,"  insisted  the  young  man,  blushing 
deeply. 

"Well,  you  may,  then,"  said  Agnes, 
who  began  to  wonder  at  the  length  of 
time  her  grandmother  allowed  this  con- 
versation to  go  on  without  interrupting  it, 
as  she  generally  had  done  when  a  young 
man  was  in  the  case.  Quite  to  her  aston- 
ishment, her  venerable  relative,  instead 
of  sticking  as  close  to  her  as  her  shadow, 
was  walking  forward  very  fast  without 
looking  behind. 

"  Now,  Holy  Mother,"  said  that  excel- 
lent matron,  "do  help  this  young  man 
to  bring  this  affair  out  straight,  and  give 
an  old  woman,  who  has  had  a  world  of 
troubles,  a  little  peace  in  her  old  age ! " 

Agnes  found  herself,  therefore,  quite 
unusually  situated,  alone  in  the  company 
of  a  handsome  young  man,  and  apparent- 
ly with  the  consent  of  her  grandmother. 
Some  girls  might  have  felt  emotions  of 
embarrassment,  or  even  alarm,  at  this  new 
situation  ;  but  the  sacred  loneliness  and 
seclusion  in  which  Agnes  had  been  edu- 
cated had  given  her  a  confiding  fearless- 
ness, such  as  voyagers  have  found  in  the 
birds  of  bright  foreign  islands  which  have 
never  been  invaded  by  man.  She  look- 
ed up  at  Antonio  with  a  pleased,  admir- 
ing smile,  —  much  such  as  she  would  have 
given,  if  a  great  handsome  stag,  or  other 
sylvan  companion,  had  stepped  from  the 
forest  and  looked  a  friendship  at  her 
through  his  large  liquid  eyes.  She  seem- 
ed, in  an  innocent,  frank  way,  to  like  to 
have  him  walking  by  her,  and  thought 
him  very  good  to  carry  her  basket, — 
though,  as  she  told  him,  he  need  not  do 
it,  it  did  not  tire  her  in  the  least. 


"  Nor  does  it  tire  me,  pretty  Agnes," 
said  he,  with  an  embarrassed  laugh.  "  See 
what  a  great  fellow  I  am,  —  how  strong  I 
Look,  —  I  can  bend  an  iron  bar  in  my 
hands !  I  am  as  strong  as  an  ox, — and  I 
should  like  always  to  use  my  strength  for 
you." 

"  Should  you  ?  How  very  kind  of  you  I 
It  is  very  Christian  to  use  one's  strength 
for  others,  like  the  good  Saint  Christo- 
pher." 

"  But  I  would  use  my  strength  for  you 
because  —  I  love  you,  gentle  Agnes  ! " 

"  That  is  right,  too,"  replied  Agnes. 
"  We  must  all  love  one  another,  my  good 
Antonio." 

"  You  must  know  what  I  mean,"  said 
the  young  man.  "I  mean  that  I  want 
to  marry  you." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that,  Antonio,"  replied 
Agnes,  gravely ;  "  because  I  do  not  want 
to  marry  you.  I  am  never  going  to  mar- 
ry anybody." 

"  Ah,  girls  always  talk  so,  my  moth- 
er told  me  ;  but  nobody  ever  heard  of  a 
girl  that  did  not  want  a  husband ;  that  is 
impossible,"  said  Antonio,  with  simplici- 
ty- .  ■         . 

"  I  believe  girls  generally  do,  Antonio ; 

but  I  do  not :  my  desire  is  to  go  to  the 
convent." 

"  To  the  convent,  pretty  Agnes  ?  Of 
all  things,  what  should  you  want  to  go  to 
the  convent  for?  You  never  had  any 
trouble.  You  are  young,  and  handsome, 
and  healthy,  and  almost  any  of  the  fel- 
lows would  think  himself  fortunate  to  get 
you." 

"  I  would  go  there  to  hve  for  God  and 
pray  for  souls,"  said  Agnes. 

"  But  your  grandmother  will  never  let 
you  ;  she  means  you  shall  marry  me.  I 
heard  her  and  my  mother  talking  about 
it  last  night;  and  my  mother  bade  me 
come  on,  for  she  said  it  was  all  settled." 

"  I  never  heard  anything  of  it,"  said 
Agnes,  now  for  the  first  time  feeling 
troubled.  "  But,  my  good  Antonio,  if  you 
really  do  like  me  and  wish  me  well,  you 
will  not  want  to  distress  me  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not." 

«  Well,  it  will  distress  me  very,  very 


1861.] 


Agnes  of  Sorrento. 


689 


much,  if  you  persist  in  wanting  to  marry 
me,  and  if  you  say  any  more  on  the  sub- 
ject." 

"  Is  that  really  so  ?  "  said  Antonio,  fix- 
ing his  great  velvet  eyes  with  an  honest 
stare  on  Agnes. 

"  Yes,  it  is  so,  Antonio ;  you  may  rely 
upon  it." 

"  But  look  here,  Agnes,  are  you  quite 
sure  ?  Mother  says  girls  do  not  always 
know  their  mind." 

"  But  I  know  mine,  Antonio.  Now  you 
really  will  distress  and  trouble  me  very 
much,  if  you  say  anything  more  of  this 
sort." 

"  I  declare,  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  said  the 
young  man.  "Look  ye,  Agnes, — I  did 
not  care  half  as  much  about  it  this  morn- 
ing as  I  do  now.  Mother  has  been  say- 
ing this  great  while  that  I  must  have  a 
wife,  that  she  was  getting  old ;  and  this 
morning  she  told  me  to  speak  to  you.  I 
thought  you  would  be  all  ready, — indeed 
I  did." 

"  My  good  Antonio,  there  are  a  great 
many  very  handsome  girls  who  would  be 
glad,  I  suppose,  to  marry  you.  I  believe 
other  girls  do  not  feel  as  I  do.  Giulletta 
used  to  laugh  and  tell  me  so." 

"  That  Giulletta  was  a  splendid  girl," 
said  Antonio.  "  She  used  to  make  great 
eyes  at  me,  and  try  to  make  me  play  the 
fool ;  but  my  mother  would  not  hear  of 
her.  Now  she  has  gone  off  with  a  fellow 
to  the  mountains." 

«  Giulietta  gone  ?  " 

"  Yes,  have  n't  you  heard  of  it  ?  She  's 
gone  with  one  of  the  fellows  of  that  dash- 
ing young  robber-captain  that  has  been 
round  our  town  so  much  lately.  All  the 
girls  are  wild  after  these  mountain  fel- 
lows. A  good,  honest  boy  like  me,  that 
hammers  away  at  his  trade,  they  think 
nothing  of;  whereas  one  of  these  fellows 
with  a  feather  in  his  cap  has  only  to 
twinkle  his  finger  at  them,  and  they  are 
off  like  a  bird." 

The  blood  rose  in  Agnes's  cheeks  at 
this  very  unconscious  remark;  but  she 
walked  along  for  some  time  with  a  coun- 
tenance of  grave  reflection. 

They  had  now  gained  the  street  of  the 


city,  where  old  Elsie  stood  at  a  little  dis- 
tance waiting  for  them. 

"  Well,  Agnes,"  said  Antonio,  "  so  you 
really  are  in  earnest  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  am." 

"  Well,  then,  let  us  be  good  friends,  at 
any  rate,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,  I  will,"  said  Agnes, 
smiling  with  all  the  brightness  her  lovely 
face  was  capable  of  "You  are  a  kind, 
good  man,  and  I  like  you  very  much.  I 
will  always  remember  you  kindly." 

"  Well,  good-bye,  then,"  said  Antonio, 
offering  his  hand. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Agnes,  cheerfully  giv- 
ing hers. 

Elsie,  beholding  the  cordiality  of  this 
parting,  comforted  herself  that  all  was 
right,  and  ruffled  all  her  feathers  with 
the  satisfied  pride  of  a  matron  whose 
family  plans  are  succeeding. 

"  After  all,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  broth- 
er was  right,  —  best  let  young  folks  settle 
these  matters  themselves.  Now  see  the 
advantage  of  such  an  education  as  I  have 
given  Agnes !  Instead  of  being  betroth- 
ed to  a  good,  honest,  forehanded  fellow, 
she  might  have  been  losing  her  poor  sil- 
ly heart  to  some  of  these  lords  or  gal- 
lants who  throw  away  a  girl  as  one  does 
an  orange  when  they  have  sucked  it. 
Who  knows  what  mischief  this  cavalier 
might  have  done,  if  I  had  not  been  so 
watchful  ?  Now  let  him  come  prying 
and  spying  about,  she  will  have  a  hus- 
band to  defend  her.  A  smith's  hammer 
is  better  than  an  old  woman's  spindle, 
any  day." 

Agnes  took  her  seat  with  her  usual  air 
of  thoughtful  gravity,  her  mind  seeming  to 
be  intensely  preoccupied,  and  her  grand- 
mother, though  secretly  exulting  in  the 
supposed  cause,  resolved  not  to  open  the 
subject  with  her  till  they  were  at  home 
or  alone  at  night. 

"  I  have  my  defence  to  make  to  Father 
Francesco,  too,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  for 
hurrying  on  this  betrothal  against  his  ad- 
vice ;  but  one  must  manage  a  little  with 
these  priests,  —  the  saints  forgive  me  !  I 
really  think  sometimes,  because  they  can't 
marry  themselves,  they  would  rather  see 


690 


Agnes  of  Sorrento, 


[December, 


every  pretty  girl  in  a  convent  than  with 
a  husband.  It  *s  natural  enough,  too. 
Father  Francesco  will  be  like  the  rest  of 
the  world :  when  he  can't  help  a  thing, 
he  will  see  the  will  of  the  Lord  in  it." 

Thus  prosperously  the  world  seemed 
to  go  with  old  Elsie.  Meantime,  when 
her  back  was  turned,  as  she  was  kneeling 
over  her  basket,  sorting  out  lemons,  Agnes 
happened  to  look  up,  and  there,  just  un- 
der the  arch  of  the  gateway,  where  she 
had  seen  him  the  first  time,  sat  the  cava- 
lier on  a  splendid  horse,  with  a  white 
feather  streaming  backward  from  his 
black  riding-hat  and  dark  curls. 

He  bowed  low  and  kissed  his  hand  to 
her,  and  before  she  knew  it  her  eyes 
met  his,  which  seemed  to  flash  light  and 
sunshine  all  through  her;  and  then  he 
turned  his  horse  and  was  gone  through 
the  gate,  while  she,  filled  with  self-re- 
proach, was  taking  her  little  heart  to 
task  for  the  instantaneous  throb  of  hap- 
piness which  had  passed  through  her 
whole  being  at  that  sight.  She  had  not 
turned  away  her  head,  nor  said  a  prayer, 
as  Father  Francesco  told  her  to  do,  be- 
cause the  whole  thing  had  been  sudden 
as  a  flash;  but  now  it  was  gone,  she 
prayed,  "  My  God,  help  me  not  to  love 
him  !  —  let  me  love  Thee  alone  ! "  But 
many  times  in  the  course  of  the  day,  as 
she  twisted  her  flax,  she  found  herself 
wondering  whither  he  could  be  going. 
Had  he  really  gone  to  that  enchanted 
cloud-land,  in  the  old  purple  Apennines, 
whither  he  wanted  to  carry  her,  —  gone, 
perhaps,  never  to  return?  That  was 
best.  But  was  he  reconciled  with  the 
Church  ?  Was  that  great,  splendid  soul 
that  looked  out  of  those  eyes  to  be  for- 
ever lost,  or  would  the  pious  exhortations 
of  her  uncle  avail  ?  And  then  she  thought 
he  had  said  to  her,  that,  if  she  would  go 
with  him,  he  would  confess  and  take  the 
sacrament,  and  be  reconciled  with  the 
Church,  and  so  his  soul  be  saved. 

She   resolved   to  tell   this  to   Father 

Francesco.     Perhaps  he  would No, 

—  she  shivered  as  she  remembered  the 
severe,  withering  look  with  which  the  holy 
father  had  spoken  of  him,  and  the  awful- 


ness  of  his  manner, — he  would  never  con- 
sent.     And  then  her  grandmother 

No,  there  was  no  possibility. 

Meanwhile  Agnes's  good  old  uncle  sat 
in  the  orange-shaded  garden,  busily  per- 
fecting his  sketches;  but  his  mind  was 
distracted,  and  his  thoughts  wandered, — 
and  often  he  rose,  and,  leaving  his  draw- 
ings, would  pace  up  and  down  the  little 
place,  absorbed  in  earnest  prayer.  The 
thought  of  his  master's  position  was  hour- 
ly growing  upon  him.  The  real  world 
with  its  hungry  and  angry  tide  was  each 
hour  washing  higher  and  higher  up  on 
the  airy  shore  of  the  ideal,  and  bearing 
the  pearls  and  enchanted  shells  of  fancy 
out  into  its  salt  and  muddy  waters. 

"  Oh,  my  master,  my  father ! "  he  said, 
"is  the  martyr's  crown  of  fire  indeed 
waiting  thee  ?  Will  God  desert  His  own  ? 
But  was  not  Christ  crucified?  —  and  the 
disciple  is  not  above  his  master,  nor  the 
servant  above  his  lord.  But  surely  Flor- 
ence will  not  consent.  The  whole  city 
will  make  a  stand  for  him;  —  they  are 
ready,  if  need  be,  to  pluck  out  their  eyes 
and  give  them  to  him.  Florence  will 
certainly  be  a  refuge  for  him.  But  why 
do  I  put  confidence  in  man  ?  In  the 
Lord  alone  have  I  righteousness  and 
strength." 

And  the  old  monk  raised  the  psalm, 
^'■Quare  fremunt  genies"  and  his  voice 
rose  and  fell  through  the  flowery  recesses 
and  dripping  grottoes  of  the  old  gorge, 
sad  and  earnest  like  the  protest  of  the 
few  and  feeble  of  Christ's  own  against 
the  rushing  legions  of  the  world.  Yet, 
as  he  sang,  courage  and  holy  hope  came 
into  his  soul  from  the  sacred  words, — just 
such  courage  as  they  afterwards  brought 
to  Luther,  and  to  the  Puritans  in  later 
times. 


CHAPTER  XYII. 
THE   monk's   departure. 

The  three  inhabitants  of  the  little 
dovecot  were  sitting  in  their  garden  af- 
ter supper,  enjoying  the  cool  freshness. 
The  place  was  perfumed  with  the  smell 
of  orange-blossoms,  brought  out  by  gen- 


1861.] 


Agnes  of  Sorrento. 


691 


tie  showers  that  had  fallen  during  the 
latter  part  of  the  afternoon,  and  all  three 
felt  the  tranquillizing  effects  of  the  sweet 
evening  air.  The  monk  sat  bending  over 
his  drawings,  resting  the  frame  on  which 
they  lay  on  the  mossy  garden-wall,  so 
as  to  get  the  latest  advantage  of  the 
rich  golden  twilight  which  now  twinkled 
through  the  sky.  Agnes  sat  by  him  on 
the  same  wall,  —  now  glancing  over  his 
shoulder  at  his  work,  and  now  leaning 
thoughtfully  on  her  elbow,  gazing  pen- 
sively down  into  the  deep  shadows  of 
the  gorge,  or  out  where  the  golden  light 
of  evening  streamed  under  the  arches  of 
the  old  Roman  bridge,  to  the  wide,  bright 
sea  beyond. 

Old  Elsie  bustled  about  with  unusual 
content  in  the  lines  of  her  keen  wrinkled 
face.  Already  her  thoughts  were  run- 
ning on  household  furnishing  and  bri- 
dal finery.  She  unlocked  an  old  chest 
which  from  its  heavy  quaint  carvings  of 
dark  wood  must  have  been  some  relic 
of  the  fortunes  of  her  better  days,  and, 
taking  out  of  a  little  till  of  the  same  a 
string  of  fine  silvery  pearls,  held  them 
Tip  admiringly  to  the  evening  light. 
A  splendid  pair  of  pearl  ear-rings  also 
was  produced  from  the  same  recepta- 
cle. 

She  sighed  at  first,  as  she  looked  at 
these  things,  and  then  smiled  with  rath- 
er an  air  of  triumph,  and,  coming  to 
"where  Agnes  reclined  on  the  wall,  held 
them  up  playfully  before  her. 

"  See  here,  little  one  ! "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  what  pretty  things ! —  where  did 
they  come  from  ?  "  said  Agnes,  innocent- 

"  Where  did  they  ?  Sure  enough  ! 
Little  did  you  or  any  one  else  know 
old  Elsie  had  things  like  these  1  But 
she  meant  her  little  Agnes  should  hold 
up  her  head  with  the  best.  No  girl  in 
Sorrento  will  have  such  wedding  finery 
as  this  ?  " 

"  Wedding  finery,  grandmamma,"  said 
Agnes,  faintly, — "  what  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"  What  does  that  mean,  sly-boots  ? 
Ah,  you  know  well  enough  !  What  were 
you  and  Antonio  talking  about  all  the 


time  this  morning  ?  Did  he  not  ask  you 
to  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  grandmamma  ;  but  I  told  him  I 
was  not  going  to  marry.  You  promised 
me,  dear  grandmother,  right  here,  the 
other  night,  that  I  should  not  marry  till 
I  was  willing ;  and  I  told  Antonio  I  was 
not  willing," 

"  The  girl  says  but  true,  sister,"  said 
the  monk ;  "  you  remember  you  gave  her 
your  word  that  she  should  not  be  married 
till  she  gave  her  consent  willingly." 

"  But,  Agnes,  my  pretty  one,  what  can 
be  the  objection  ?  "  said  old  Elsie,  coax- 
ingly.  "  Where  will  you  find  a  better- 
made  man,  or  more  honest,  or  more  kind  ? 
—  and  he  is  handsome  ;  —  and  you  will 
have  a  home  that  all  the  girls  will  en- 
vy." 

"  Grandmamma,  remember,  you  prom- 
ised me,  —  you  promised  me,"  said  Ag- 
nes, looking  distressed,  and  speaking  ear- 
nestly. 

"  Well,  well,  child !  but  can't  I  ask  a 
civil  question,  if  I  did  ?  What  is  your 
objection  to  Antonio  ?  " 

"  Only  that  I  don't  want  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

"Now  you  know,  child,"  said  Elsie, 
"  I  never  will  consent  to  your  going  to 
a  convent.  You  might  as  well  put  a 
knife  through  my  old  heart  as  talk  to  me 
of  that.  And  if  you  don't  go,  you  must 
marry  somebody ;  and  who  could  be  bet- 
ter than  Antonio  ?  " 

"  Oh,  grandmamma,  am  I  not  a  good 
girl  ?  What  have  I  done,  that  you  are 
so  anxious  to  get  me  away  from  you  ?  " 
said  Agnes.  "  I  like  Antonio  well  enough, 
but  I  like  you  ten  thousand  times  better. 
Why  cannot  we  live  together  just  as  we 
do  now  ?  I  am  strong.  I  can  work  a 
great  deal  harder  than  I  do.  You  ought 
to  let  me  work  more,  so  that  you  need 
not  work  so  hard  and  tire  yourself, — 
let  me  carry  the  heavy  basket,  and  dig 
round  the  trees." 

"  Pooh  !  a  pretty  story  ! "  said  Elsie. 
"  We  are  two  lone  women,  and  the  times 
are  unsettled;  there  are  robbers  and 
loose  fellows  about,  and  we  want  a  pro- 
tector." 


692 


Agnes  of  Sorrento. 


[December, 


"  And  is  not  the  good  Lord  our  protec- 
tor?— has  He  not  always  kept  us,  grand- 
mother ?  "  said  Agnes. 

"  Oh,  that 's  well  enough  to  say,  but 
folks  can't  always  get  along  so ;  —  it 's 
far  better  trusting  the  Lord  with  a  good 
strong  man  about,  —  like  Antonio,  for  in- 
stance. I  should  like  to  see  the  man  that 
•would  dare  be  uncivil  to  Jiis  wife.  But 
go  your  ways,  —  it 's  no  use  toiling  away 
one's  life  for  children,  who,  after  all,  won't 
turn  their  little  finger  for  you." 

"  Now,  dear  grandmother,"  said  Agnes, 
"  have  I  not  said  I  would  do  everything 
for  you,  and  work  hard  for  you  ?  Ask  me 
to  do  anything  else  in  the  world,  grand- 
mamma ;  I  will  do  anything  to  make  you 
happy,  except  marry  this  man,  —  that  I 
cannot." 

"  And  that  is  the  only  thing  I  want 
you  to  do.  Well,  I  suppose  I  may  as 
well  lock  up  these  things ;  I  see  my  gifts 
are  not  cared  for." 

And  the  old  soul  turned  and  went  in 
quite  testily,  leaving  Agnes  with  a  griev- 
ed heart,  sitting  still  by  her  uncle. 

"  Never  weep,  little  one,"  said  the  kind 
old  monk,  when  he  saw  the  silent  tears 
falling  one  after  another ;  "  your  grand- 
mother loves  you,  after  all,  and  will  come 
out  of  this,  if  we  are  quiet." 

"  This  is  such  a  beautiful  world,"  said 
Agnes,  "  who  would  think  it  would  be 
such  a  hard  one  to  live  in  ?  —  such  bat- 
tles and  conflicts  as  people  have  here  ! " 

"  You  say  well,  little  heart ;  but  great 
is  the  glory  to  be  revealed ;  so  let  us  have 
courage." 

"  Dear  uncle,  have  you  heard  any  ill- 
tidings  of  late  ?  "  asked  Agnes.  "  I  no- 
es o 

ticed  this  morning  you  were  cast  down, 
and  to-night  you  look  so  tired  and  sad." 

"Yes,  dear  child, — heavy  tidings  have 
indeed  come.  My  dear  master  at  Flor- 
ence is  hard  beset  by  wicked  men,  and 
in  great  danger, —  in  danger,  perhaps,  of 
falling  a  martyr  to  his  holy  zeal  for  the 
blessed  Jesus  and  his  Church." 

"  But  cannot  our  holy  father,  the  Pope, 
protect  him  ?  You  should  go  to  Rome 
directly  and  lay  the  case  before  him." 

"  It  is  not  always  possible  to  be  pro- 


tected by  the  Pope,"  said  Father  Anto- 
nio, evasively.  "  But  I  grieve  much,  dear 
child,  that  I  can  be  with  you  no  longer. 
I  must  gird  up  my  loins  and  set  out  for 
Florence,  to  see  with  my  own  eyes  how 
the  battle  is  going  for  my  holy  master." 

"  Ah,  must  I  lose  you,  too,  my  dear, 
best  friend  ?  "  said  Agnes.  "  What  shall 
I  do  ?  " 

"  Thou  hast  the  same  Lord  Jesus,  and 
the  same  dear  Mother,  when  I  am  gone. 
Have  faith  in  God,  and  cease  not  to 
pray  for  His  Church,  —  and  for  me,  too." 

"  That  I  will,  dear  uncle  !  I  will  pray 
for  you  more  than  ever, — for  prayer  now 
will  be  all  my  comfort.  But,"  she  add- 
ed, with  hesitation,  "  oh,  uncle,  you  prom- 
ised to  visit  him  I " 

"  Never  fear,  little  Agnes,  —  I  will  do 
that.  I  go  to  him  this  very  night,  —  now, 
even,  —  for  the  daylight  waxes  too  scant 
for  me  to  work  longer." 

"  But  you  will  come  back  and  stay 
with  us  to-night,  uncle  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will,  —  but  to-morrow  morning 
I  must  be  up  and  away  with  the  birds ; 
and  I  have  labored  hard  all  day  to  fin- 
ish the  drawings  for  the  lad  who  shall 
carve  the  shrine,  that  he  may  busy  him- 
self thereon  in  my  absence." 

"  Then  you  will  come  back  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  dear  heart,  I  will  come 
back ;  of  that  be  assured.  Pray  God  it 
be  before  long,  too." 

So  saying,  the  good  monk  drew  his 
cowl  over  his  head,  and,  putting  his  port- 
folio of  drawings  under  his  arm,  began 
to  wend  his  way  towards  the  old  town. 

Agnes  watched  him  departing,  her 
heart  in  a  strange  flutter  of  eagerness 
and  solicitude.  What  were  these  dread- 
ful troubles  which  were  coming  upon  her 
good  uncle  ?  —  who  those  enemies  of  the 
Church  that  beset  that  saintly  teacher 
he  so  much  looked  up  to  ?  And  why  was 
lawless  violence  allowed  to  run  such  riot 
in  Italy,  as  it  had  in  the  case  of  the 
unfortunate  cavalier?  As  she  thought 
things  over,  she  was  burning  with  a  re- 
pressed desire  to  do  something  herself 
to  abate  these  troubles. 

"  I  am  not  a  knight,"  she  said  to  her- 


1861.] 


Agnes  of  Sorrento. 


fe93 


self,  "and  I  cannot  fight  for  the  good 
cause.  I  am  not  a  priest,  and  I  cannot 
argue  for  it.  I  cannot  preach  and  con- 
vert sinners.  What,  then,  can  I  do  ?  I 
can  pray.  Suppose  I  should  make  a  pil- 
grimage ?  Yes,  —  that  would  be  a  good 
■work,  and  I  will.  I  will  walk  to  Rome, 
praying  at  every  shrine  and  holy  place; 
and  then,  when  I  come  to  the  Holy  City, 
whose  very  dust  is  made  precious  with 
the  blood  of  the  martyrs  and  saints,  I 
will  seek  the  house  of  our  dear  father, 
the  Pope,  and  entreat  his  forgiveness  for 
this  poor  soul.  He  will  not  scorn  me, 
for  he  is  in  the  place  of  the  blessed  Jesus, 
and  the  richest  princess  and  the  poorest 
maiden  are  equal  in  his  sight.  Ah,  that 
will  be  beautiful !  Holy  Mother,"  she 
said,  falling  on  her  knees  before  the 
shrine,  "  here  I  vow  and  promise  that  I 
will  go  praying  to  the  Holy  City.  Smile 
on  me  and  help  me  !  " 

And  by  the  twinkle  of  the  flickering 
lamp  which  threw  its  light  upon  the  pic- 
ture, Agnes  thought  surely  the  placid  face 
brightened  to  a  tender  maternal  smile,  and 
her  enthusiastic  imagination  saw  in  this 
an  omen  of  success. 

Old  Elsie  was  moody  and  silent  this 
evening,  —  vexed  at  the  thwarting  of  her 
schemes.  It  was  the  first  time  that  the 
idea  had  ever  gained  a  foothold  in  her 
mind,  that  her  docile  and  tractable 
grandchild  could  really  have  for  any 
serious  length  of  time  a  will  opposed  to 
her  own,  and  she  found  it  even  now  dif- 
ficult to  believe  it.  Hitherto  she  had 
shaped  her  life  as  easily  as  she  could 
mould  a  biscuit,  and  it  was  all  plain  sail- 
ing before  her.  The  force  and  decision 
of  this  young  will  rose  as  suddenly  upon 
her  as  the  one  rock  in  the  middle  of  the 
ocean  which  a  voyager  unexpectedly  dis- 
covered by  striking  on  it. 

But  Elsie  by  no  means  regarded  the 
game  as  lost.  She  mentally  went  over 
the  field,  considering  here  and  there 
what  was  yet  to  be  done. 

The  subject  had  fairly  been  broached. 
Agnes  had  listened  to  it,  and  parted  in 
friendship  from  Antonio.  Now  his  old 
mother  must  be  soothed  and  pacified; 


and  Antonio  must  be  made  to  perse- 
vere. 

"  What  is  a  girl  worth  that  can  be  won 
at  the  first  asking  ?  "  quoth  Elsie.  "  De- 
pend upon  it,  she  will  fall  to  thinking  of 
him,  and  the  next  time  she  sees  him  she 
will  give  him  a  good  look.  The  girl 
never  knew  what  it  was  to  have  a  lov- 
er. No  wonder  she  does  n't  take  to  it 
at  first;  there  's  where  her  bringing  up 
comes  in,  so  difierent  from  other  girls'. 
Courage,  Elsie !  Nature  will  speak  in  its 
own  time." 

Thus  soliloquizing,  she  prepared  to  go 
a  few  steps  from  their  dwelling,  to  the 
cottage  of  Meta  and  Antonio,  which  was 
situated  at  no  great  distance. 

"Nobody  will  think  of  coming  here 
this  time  o'  night,"  she  said,  "  and  the 
girl  is  in  for  a  good  hour  at  least  with 
her  prayers,  and  so  I  think  I  may  ven- 
ture. I  don't  really  like  to  leave  her, 
but  it 's  not  a  great  way,  and  I  shall  be 
back  in  a  few  moments.  I  want  just  to 
put  a  word  into  old  Meta's  ear,  that  she 
may  teach  Antonio  how  to  demean  him- 
self." 

And  so  the  old  soul  took  her  spinning 
and  away  she  went,  leaving  Agnes  ab- 
sorbed in  her  devotions. 

The  solemn  starry  night  looked  down 
steadfastly  on  the  little  garden.  The  even- 
ing wind  creeping  with  gentle  stir  among 
the  orange-leaves,  and  the  falling  waters 
of  the  fountain  dripping  their  distant, 
solitary  way  down  from  rock  to  rock 
through  the  lonely  gorge,  were  the  on- 
ly sounds  that  broke  the  stillness. 

The  monk  was  the  first  of  the  two  to 
return ;  for  those  accustomed  to  the  hab- 
its of  elderly  cronies  on  a  gossiping  ex- 
pedition of  any  domestic  importance  will 
not  be  surprised  that  Elsie's  few  moments 
of  projected  talk  lengthened  impercepti- 
bly into  hours. 

Agnes  came  forward  anxiously  to  meet 
her  uncle.  He  seemed  wan  and  haggard, 
and  trembling  with  some  recent  emo- 
tion. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  dear 
uncle  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Has  anything  hap- 
pened ?  " 


694 


Agnes  of  Sorrento, 


[December, 


"  Nothing,  child,  nothing.  I  have  only 
been  talking  on  painful  subjects,  deep 
perplexities,  out  of  which  I  can  scarcely 
see  my  way.  Would  to  God  this  night 
of  life  were  past,  and  I  could  see  morn- 
ing on  the  mountains  ! " 

"My  uncle,  have  you  not,  then,  suc- 
ceeded in  bringing  this  young  man  to  the 
bosom  of  the  True  Church  ?  " 

"  Child,  the  way  is  hedged  up,  and 
made  almost  impassable  by  difficulties 
you  little  wot  of.  They  cannot  be  told  to 
you  ;  they  are  enough  to  destroy  the  faith 
of  the  very  elect." 

Agnes's  heart  sank  within  her ;  and  the 
monk,  sitting  down  on  the  wall  of  the 
garden,  clasped  his  hands  over  one  knee 
and  gazed  fixedly  before  him. 

The  sight  of  her  uncle,  —  generally 
so  cheerful,  so  elastic,  so  full  of  bright 
thoughts  and  beautiful  words, —  so  utter- 
ly cast  down,  was  both  a  mystery  and  a 
terror  to  Agnes. 

"  Oh,  my  uncle,"  she  said,  "  it  is  hard 
that  I  must  not  know,  and  that  I  can  do 
nothing,  when  I  feel  ready  to  die  for  this 
cause !  What  is  one  little  life  ?  Ah, 
if  I  had  a  thousand  to  give,  I  could  melt 
them  all  into  it,  like  little  drops  of  rain 
in  the  sea  !  Be  not  utterly  cast  down, 
good  uncle !  Does  not  our  dear  Lord 
and  Saviour  reign  in  the  heavens  yet  ?  '* 

"  Sweet  little  nightingale ! "  said  the 
monk,  stretching  his  hand  towards  her. 
"  Well  did  my  master  say  that  he  gained 
strength  to  his  soul  always  by  talking 
with  Christ's  little  children  ! " 

"  And  all  the  dear  saints  and  angels, 
they  are  not  dead  or  idle  either,"  said 
Agnes,  her  face  kindling  ;  "  they  are 
busy  all  around  us.  I  know  not  what 
this  trouble  is  you  speak  of;  but  let  us 
think  what  legions  of  bright  angels  and 
holy  men  and  women  are  caring  for  us.' 

"  Well  said,  well  said,  dear  child ! 
There  is,  thank  God,  a  Church  Trium- 
phant,—  a  crowned  queen,  a  glorious 
bride ;  and  the  poor,  struggling  Church 
Militant  shall  rise  to  join  her !  What  mat- 
ter, then,  though  our  way  lie  through  dun- 
geon and  chains,  through  fire  and  sword, 
if  we  may  attain  to  that  glory  at  last  ?  " 


"  Uncle,  are  there  such  dreadful  things 
really  before  you  ?  " 

"  There  may  be,  child.  I  say  of  my 
master,  as  did  the  holy  Apostles :  '  Let  us 
also  go,  that  we  may  die  with  him.'  I 
feel  a  heavy  presage.  But  I  must  not 
trouble  you,  child.  Early  in  the  morn- 
ing I  will  be  up  and  away.  I  go  with 
this  youth,  whose  pathway  lies  a  certain 
distance  along  mine,  and  whose  company 
I  seek  for  his  good  as  well  as  my  pleas- 
ure." 

"  You  go  with  him  f  "  said  Agnes,  with 
a  start  of  surprise. 

"  Yes  ;  his  refuge  in  the  mountains  lies 
between  here  and  Rome,  and  he  hath 
kindly  offered  to  bring  me  on  my  way 
faster  than  I  can  go  on  foot ;  and  I  would 
fain  see  our  beautiful  Florence  as  soon 
as  may  be.  O  Florence,  Florence,  Lily 
of  Italy !  wilt  thou  let  thy  prophet  per- 
ish ?  " 

"  But,  uncle,  if  he  die  for  the  faith,  he 
will  be  a  blessed  martyr.  That  crown  is 
worth  dying  for,"  said  Agnes. 

"  You  say  well,  little  one,  —  you  say 
well !  '  Ex  oribus  parvulorum.'  But  one 
shrinks  from  that  in  the  person  of  a 
friend  which  one  could  cheerfully  wel- 
come for  one's  self.  Oh,  the  blessed 
cross  !  never  is  it  welcome  to  the  flesh, 
and  yet  how  joyfully  the  spirit  may  walk 
under  it ! " 

"Dear  uncle,  I  have  made  a  solemn 
vow  before  our  Holy  Mother  this  night," 
said  Agnes,  "  to  go  on  a  pilgrimage  to 
Rome,  and  at  every  shrine  and  holy 
place  to  pray  that  these  great  afflictions 
which  beset  all  of  you  may  have  a  hap- 
py issue." 

"  My  sweet  heart,  what  have  you 
done  ?  Have  you  considered  the  unset- 
tled roads,  the  wild,  unruly  men  that  are 
abroad,  the  robbers  with  which  the 
mountains  are  filled  ?  " 

"  These  are  all  Christ's  children  and 
my  brothers,"  said  Agnes ;  "  for  them 
was  the  most  holy  blood  shed,  as  well  as 
for  me.  They  cannot  harm  one  who 
prays  for  them." 

"  But,  dear  heart  of  mine,  these  un- 
godly brawlers  think  little  of  prayer;  and 


1861.] 


Agnes  of  Sorrento. 


695 


this  beautiful,  innocent  little  face  will  but 
move  the  vilest  and  most  brutal  thoughts 
and  deeds." 

"  Saint  Agnes  still  lives,  dear  uncle, — 
and  He  who  kept  her  in  worse  trial.  I 
shall  walk  through  them  all  pure  as 
snow,  —  I  am  assured  I  shall.  The  star 
which  led  the  wise  men  and  stood  over 
the  young  child  and  his  mother  will  lead 
me,  too." 

"  But  your  grandmother  ?  " 

"  The  Lord  will  incline  her  heart  to 
go  with  me.  Dear  uncle,  it  does  not 
beseem  a  child  to  reflect  on  its  elders, 
yet  I  cannot  but  see  that  grandmamma 
loves  this  world  and  me  too  well  for  her 
soul's  good.  This  journey  will  be  for  her 
eternal  repose." 

"  Well,  well,  dear  one,  I  cannot  now 
advise.  Take  advice  of  your  confessor, 
and  the  blessed  Lord  and  his  holy  Moth- 
er be  with  you  !  But  come  now,  I  would 
soothe  myself  to  sleep ;  for  I  have  need 
of  good  rest  to-night.  Let  us  sing  to- 
gether our  dear  master's  hymn  of  the 
Cross." 

And  the  monk  and  the  maiden  sang 
together :  — 

"  lesu,  sommo  conforto, 
Tu  sei  tutto  11  mlo  amore 
E  '1  mio  beato  porto, 
E  santo  Redentore. 

0  gran  bouta, 

Dolce  pieta, 

Felice  quel  che  teco  unito  sta ! 


"  La  croce  e  '1  Crocifisso 
Sla  nel  mio  cor  scolpito, 
Ed  io  sia  senipre  affisso 
In  gloria  ov'  egli  h  ito !  "  * 

As  the  monk  sang,  his  soul  seemed  to 
fuse  itself  into  the  sentiment  with  that 
natural  grace  peculiar  to  his  nation.  He 
walked  up  and  down  the  little  garden, 
apparently  forgetful  of  Agnes  or  of  any 
earthly  presence,  and  in  the  last  verses 
stretched  his  hands  towards  heaven  with 
streaming  tears  and  a  fervor  of  utterance 
indescribable. 

The  soft  and  passionate  tenderness  of 
the  Italian  words  must  exhale  in  an  Eng- 
lish translation,  but  enough  may  remain 
to  show  that  the  hymns  with  which  Sa- 
vonarola at  this  time  sowed  the  mind  of 
Italy  often  mingled  the  Moravian  quaint- 
ness  and  energy  with  the  Wesleyan  purity 
and  tenderness.  One  of  the  great  means 
of  popular  reform  which  he  proposed  was 
the  supplanting  of  the  obscene  and  licen- 
tious songs,  which  at  that  time  so  general- 
ly defiled  the  minds  of  the  young,  by  re- 

*  Jesus,  best  comfort  of  my  soul. 
Be  thou  my  only  love. 
My  sacred  saviour  from  my  sins, 
My  door  to  heaven  above ! 
O  lofty  goodness,  love  divine, 
Blest  is  the  soul  made  one  with  thine ! 

Alas,  how  oft  this  sordid  heart 

Hath  wounded  thy  pure  eye ! 
Yet  for  this  heart  upon  the  cross 

Thou  gav'st  thyself  to  die ! 


"  Deh,  quante  volte  ofFeso 
T'  ha  r  alma  e  '1  cor  meschino, 
E  tu  sei  in  croce  steso 
Per  salvar  me,  tapino ! 


Ah,  would  I  were  extended  there. 

Upon  that  cold,  hard  tree, 
Where  I  have  seen  thee,  gracious  Lord, 

Breathe  out  thy  life  for  me ! 


lesu,  fuss'  io  confitto 
Sopra  quel  duro  ligno, 
Dove  ti  vedo  afflitto, 
lesu,  Signor  benigno ! 


Cross  of  my  Lord,  give  room !  give  room ! 

To  thee  my  flesh  be  given ! 
Cleansed  in  thy  fires  of  love  and  pain. 

My  soul  rise  pure  to  heaven ! 


"  0  croce,  fammi  loco, 
E  le  mie  membra  prendi, 
Che  del  tuo  dolce  foco 
II  cor  e  r  alma  accendi ! 


Burn  in  my  heart,  celestial  flame, 

With  memories  of  him, 
Till,  from  earth's  dross  refined,  I  rise 

To  join  the  seraphim! 


Infiamma  il  mio  cor  tanto 
Deir  amor  tuo  divino, 
Ch'  io  arda  tutto  quanto, 
Che  paia  un  serafino ! 


Ah,  vanish  each  unworthy  trace 
Of  earthly  care  or  pride, 

Leave  only,  graven  on  my  heart, 
The  Cross,  the  Crucified ! 


m^ 


A  New  CounterUasL 


[December 


liglous  words  and  melodies.  The  cliil- 
dren  and  young  people  brought  up  under 
his  influence  were  sedulously  stored  with 
treasures  of  sacred  melody,  as  the  safest 
companions  of  leisure  hours,  and  the  sur- 
est guard  against  temptation. 

"  Come  now,  my  little  one,"  said  the 
monk,  after  they  had  ceased  singing,  as 
he  laid  his  hand  on  Agnes's  head.  "  I 
am  strong  now ;  I  know  where  I  stand. 
And  you,  my  little  one,  you  are  one  of 
my  master's  '  Children  of  the  Cross.'  You 
must  sing  the  hymns  of  our  dear  master, 
that  I  have  taught  you,  when  I  am  far 
away.  A  hymn  is  a  singing  angel,  and 
goes  walking  through  the  earth,  scatter- 
ing the  devils  before  it.  Therefore  he 
who  creates  hymns  imitates  the  most 
excellent  and  lovely  works  of  our  Lord 
God,  who  made  the  angels.  These 
hymns  watch  our  chamber-door,  they  sit 
upon  our  pillow,  they  sing  to  us  when 
we  awal^e ;  and  therefore  our  master  was 
resolved  to  sow  the  minds  of  his  young 
people  with  them,  as  our  lovely  Italy  is 
sown  with  the  seeds  of  all  colored  flowers. 
How  lovely  has  it  often  been  to  me,  as  I 
sat  at  my  work  in  Florence,  to  hear  the 
little  children  go  by,  chanting  of  Jesus 
and  Mary,  — ■  and  young  men  singing  to 


young  maidens,  not  vain  flatteries  of 
their  beauty,  but  the  praises  of  the  One 
only  Beautiful,  whose  smile  sows  heaven 
with  stars  like  flowers  !  Ah,  in  my  day 
I  have  seen  blessed  times  in  Florence ! 
Truly  was  she  worthy  to  be  called  the 
Lily  City !  —  for  all  her  care  seemed  to 
be  to  make  white  her  garments  to  receive 
her  Lord  and  Bridegroom.  Yes,  though 
she  had  sinned  like  the  Magdalen,  yet 
she  loved  much,  like  her.  She  washed 
His  feet  with  her  tears,  and  wiped  them 
with  the  hair  of  her  head.  Oh,  my  beau- 
tiful Florence,  be  true  to  thy  vows,  be 
true  to  thy  Lord  and  Governor,  Jesus 
Christ,  and  all  shall  be  well !  " 

"  Amen,  dear  uncle !  "  said  Agnes.  "  I 
will  not  fail  to  pray  day  and  night, 
that  thus  it  may  be.  And  now,  if  you 
must  travel  so  far,  you  must  go  to  rest. 
Grandmamma  has  gone  long  ago.  I  saw 
her  steal  by  as  we  were  singing." 

"  And  is  there  any  message  from  my 
little  Agnes  to  this  young  man  ?  "  asked 
the  monk. 

"  Yes.  Say  to  him  that  Agnes  prays 
daily  that  he  may  be  a  worthy  son  and 
soldier  of  the  Lord  Jesus." 

"  Amen,  sweet  heart !  Jesu  and  His 
sweet  Mother  bless  thee  ! " 


A  NEW   COUNTERBLAST. 


"  He  that  taketh  tobacco  saith  he  cannot  leave  it,  it  doth  bewitch  him."- 
TO  Tobacco. 


•  King  James's  Counterblast 


America  is  especially  responsible  to 
the  whole  world  for  tobacco,  since  the 
two  are  twin-sisters,  born  to  the  globe  in 
a  day.  The  sailors  first  sent  on  shore  by 
Columbus  came  back  with  news  of  a  new 
continent  and  a  new  condiment.  There 
was  solid  land,  and  there  was  a  novel 
perfume,  which  rolled  in  clouds  from  the 
lips  of  the  natives.  The  fame  of  the 
two  great  discoveries  instantly  began  to 
overspread  the  world;  but  the  smoke 
travelled  fastest,  as  is  its  nature.     There 


are  many  races  which  have  not  yet  heard 
of  America :  there  are  very  few  which 
have  not  yet  tasted  of  tobacco.  A  plant 
which  was  originally  the  amusement  of  a 
few  savage  tribes  has  become  in  a  few 
centuries  the  fancied  necessary  of  life  to 
the  most  enlightened  nations  of  the  earth, 
and  it  is  probable  that  there  is  nothing 
cultivated  by  man  which  is  now  so  uni- 
versally employed. 

And  the  plant  owes  this  width  of  ce- 
lebrity to  a  combination  of  natural  qual- 


1861.] 


A  New   Counterblast. 


697 


ities  so  remarkable  as  to  yield  great  di- 
versities of  good  and  evil  fame.  It  was 
first  heralded  as  a  medical  panacea,  "  the 
most  sovereign  and  precious  weed  that 
ever  the  earth  tendered  to  the  use  of 
man,"  and  was  seldom  mentioned,  in  the 
sixteenth  century,  without  some  reveren- 
tial epithet.  It  was  a  plant  divine,  a 
canonized  vegetable.  Each  nation  had 
its  own  pious  name  to  bestow  upon  it. 
The  French  called  it  herhe  sainie,  herhe 
sacree,  herhe  propre  a  tous  maux,  jmna- 
cee  antarctique,  —  the  Italians,  lierha  san- 
ta  croce,  —  the  Germans,  Jieilig  wund- 
kraut.  Botanists  soberly  classified  it  as 
herha  panacea  and  herha  sancta,  and  Ge- 
rard in  his  "  Herbal "  fixed  its  name  fi- 
nally as  Sana  sancta  Indorum,  by  which 
title  it  commonly  appears  in  the  profes- 
sional recipes  of  the  time.  Spenser,  in 
his  "  Faerie  Queene,"  bids  the  lovely  Bel- 
phoebe  gather  it  as  "  divine  tobacco," 
and  Lilly  the  Euphuist  calls  it  "  our  ho- 
ly herb  Nicotian,"  ranking  it  between 
violets  and  honey.  It  was  cultivated  in 
France  for  medicinal  purposes  solely,  for 
half  a  century  before  any  one  there  used 
it  for  pleasure,  and  till  within  the  last 
hundred  years  it  was  familiarly  prescrib- 
ed, all  over  Europe,  for  asthma,  gout,  ca- 
tarrh, consumption,  headache ;  and,  in 
short,  was  credited  with  curing  more  dis- 
eases than  even  the  eighty-seven  which 
Dr.  Shew  now  charges  it  with  producing. 
So  vast  were  the  results  of  all  this  san- 
itary enthusiasm,  that  the  use  of  tobacco 
in  Europe  probably  reached  its  climax  in 
a  century  or  two,  and  has  since  rather 
diminished  than  increased,  in  proportion 
to  the  population.  It  probably  appeared 
in  England  in  1586,  being  first  used  in 
the  Indian  fashion,  by  handing  one  pipe 
from  man  to  man  throughout  the  compa- 
ny ;  the  medium  of  communication  being 
a  silver  tube  for  the  higher  classes,  and  a 
straw  and  walnut-shell  for  the  baser  sort. 
Paul  Hentzner,,  who  travelled  in  Eng- 
land in  1598,  and  Monsieur  Misson,  who 
wrote  precisely  a  century  later,  note  al- 
most in  the  same  words  "  a  perpetual 
use  of  tobacco  " ;  and  the  latter  suspects 
that  this  is  what  makes  "  the  generality 

VOL.   VIII.  45 


of  Englishmen  so  taciturn,  so  thoughtful, 
and  so  melancholy."  In  Queen  Eliza- 
beth's time,  the  ladies  of  the  court  "  would 
not  scruple  to  blow  a  pipe  together  very 
socially."  In  1614  it  was  asserted  that 
tobacco  was  sold  openly  in  more  than 
seven  thousand  places  in  London,  some 
of  these  being  already  attended  by  that 
patient  Indian  who  still  stands  seduc- 
tive at  tobacconists'  doors.  It  was  also 
estimated  that  the  annual  receipts  of 
these  estabhshments  amounted  to  more 
than  three  hundred  thousand  pounds. 
Elegant  ladies  had  their  pictures  painted, 
at  least  one  in  1650  did,  with  pipe  and 
box  in  hand.  Rochefort,  a  rather  apoc- 
ryphal French  traveller  in  1672,  report- 
ed it  to  be  the  general  custom  in  Enghsh 
homes  to  set  pipes  on  the  table  in  the 
evening  for  the  females  as  well  as  males 
of  the  family,  and  to  provide  children's 
luncheon-baskets  with  a  well-filled  pipe, 
to  be  smoked  at  school,  under  the  direct- 
ing eye  of  the  master.  In  1703,  Law- 
rence Spooner  wrote  that  "  the  sin  of  the 
kingdom  in  the  intemperate  use  of  tobac- 
co swelleth  and  increaseth  so  daily  that  I 
can  compare  it  to  nothing  but  the  waters 
of  Noah,  that  swelled  fifteen  cubits  above 
the  highest  mountains."  The  deluge  reach- 
ed its  height  in  England  —  so  thinks 
the  amusing  and  indefatigable  Mr.  Fair- 
holt,  author  of  "  Tobacco  and  its  Associa- 
tions"—  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne. 
Steele,  in  the  "  Spectator,"  (1711,)  de- 
scribes the  snufi*-box  as  a  rival  to  the  fan 
among  ladies ;  and  Goldsmith  pictures  the 
belles  at  Bath  as  entering  the  water  in 
full  bathing  costume,  each  provided  with 
a  small  floating  basket,  to  hold  a  snuff- 
box, a  kerchief,  and  a  nosegay.  And 
finally,  in  1797,  Dr.  Clarke  complains  of 
the  handing  about  of  the  snuff-box  in 
churches  during  worship,  "  to  the  great 
scandal  of  religious  people," — adding, 
that  kneeling  in  prayer  was  prevented  by 
the  large  quantity  of  saliva  ejected  in  all 
directions.  In  view  of  such  formidable 
statements  as  these,  it  is  hardly  possible 
to  believe  that  the  present  generation 
surpasses  or  even  equals  the  past  in  the 
consumption  of  tobacco. 


698 


A  New   Coimterhlast. 


[December, 


And  all  this  sudden  popularity  -was  in 
spite  of  a  vast  persecution  which  sought 
to  unite  all  Europe  against  this  indul- 
gence, in  the  seventeenth  century.  In 
llussia,  its  use  was  punishable  with  am- 
putation of  the  nose  ;  in  Berne,  it  ranked 
next  to  adultery  among  offences ;  San- 
dys, the  traveller,  saw  a  Turk  led  through 
the  streets  of  Constantinople  mounted 
backward  on  an  ass  with  a  tobacco-pipe 
thrust  through  his  nose.  Pope  Urban 
VllL,  in  1624,  excommunicated  those 
who  should  use  it  in  churches,  and  Inno- 
cent XII.,  in  1690,  echoed  the  same 
anathema.  Yet  within  a  few  years  af- 
terwards travellers  reported  that  same 
free  use  of  snuff  in  Romish  worship  which 
still  astonishes  spectators.  To  see  a  priest, 
during  the  momentous  ceremonial  of 
High  Mass,  enliven  the  occasion  by  a 
voluptuous  pinch,  is  a  sight  even  more 
astonishing,  though  perhaps  less  disagree- 
able, than  the  well-used  spittoon  which 
decorates  so  many  Protestant  pulpits. 

But  the  Protestant  pulpits  did  their  full 
share  in  fighting  the  habit,  for  a  time  at 
least.  Among  the  Puritans,  no  man  could 
use  tobacco  publicly,  on  penalty  of  a  fine 
of  two  and  sixpence,  or  in  a  private  dwell- 
ing, if  strangers  were  present ;  and  no 
two  could  use  it  together.  That  iron  pipe 
of  Miles  Standish,  still  preserved  at  Ply- 
mouth, must  have  been  smoked  in  solitude 
or  not  at  all.  This  strictness  was  gradu- 
ally relaxed,  however,  as  the  clergy  took 
up  the  habit  of  smoking ;  and  I  have  seen 
an  old  painting,  on  the  panels  of  an  an- 
cient parsonage  in  Newburyport,  repre- 
senting a  jovial  circle  of  portly  divines 
sitting  pipe  in  hand  around  a  table,  with 
the  Latin  motto,  "  In  essentials  unity,  in 
non-essentials  liberty,  in  all  things  char- 
ity." Apparently  the  tobacco  was  one 
of  the  essentials,  since  there  was  unity 
respecting  that.  Furthermore,  Captain 
Underbill,  hero  of  the  Pequot  War,  boast- 
ed to  the  saints  of  having  received  his 
assurance  of  salvation  "  while  enjoying 
a  pipe  of  that  good  creature,  tobacco," 
"  since  when  he  had  never  doubted  it, 
•though  he  should  fall  into  sin."  But  it 
is  melancholy  to  relate  that  this  fall  did 


presently  take  place,  in  a  very  flagrant 
manner,  and  brought  discredit  upon  to- 
bacco conversions,  as  being  liable  to  end 
in  smoke. 

Indeed,  some  of  the  most  royal  wills 
that  ever  lived  in  the  world  have  meas- 
ured themselves  against  the  tobacco-plant 
and  been  defeated.  Charles  I.  attempt- 
ed to  banish  it,  and  in  return  the  sol- 
diers of  Cromwell  puffed  their  smoke 
contemptuously  in  his  face,  as  he  sat  a 
prisoner  in  the  guard-chamber.  Crom- 
well himself  undertook  it,  and  Evelyn 
says  that  the  troopers  smoked  in  triumph 
at  his  funeral.  Wellington  tried  it,  and 
the  artists  caricatured  him  on  a  pipe's 
head  with  a  soldier  behind  him  defying 
with  a  whiff  that  imperial  nose.  Louis 
Napoleon  is  said  to  be  now  attempting 
it,  and  probably  finds  his  subjects  more 
ready  to  surrender  the  freedom  of  the 
press  than  of  the  pipe. 

The  more  recent  efforts  against  tobac- 
co, like  most  arguments  in  which  morals 
and  physiology  are  mingled,  have  lost 
much  of  their  effect  through  exaggera- 
tion. On  both  sides  there  has  been  en- 
listed much  loose  statement,  with  some 
bad  logic.  It  is,  for  instance,  unreason- 
able to  hold  up  the  tobacco-plant  to  gen- 
eral indignation  because  Linnasus  classed 
it  with  the  natural  order  Luridce^  —  since 
he  attributed  the  luridness  only  to  the  col- 
or of  those  plants,  not  to  their  character. 
It  is  absurd  to  denounce  it  as  belonging 
to  the  poisonous  nightshade  tribe,  when 
the  potato  and  the  tomato  also  apper- 
tain to  that  perilous  domestic  circle.  It 
is  hardly  fair  even  to  complain  of  it  for 
yielding  a  poisonous  oil,  when  these  two 
virtuous  plants  —  to  say  nothing  of  the 
peach  and  the  almond  —  will  under  suf- 
ficient chemical  provocation  do  the  same 
thing.  Two  drops  of  nicotine  will,  indeed, 
kill  a  rabbit ;  but  so,  it  is  said,  will  two 
drops  of  solanine.  Great  are  the  re- 
sources of  chemistry,  and  a  well-regu- 
lated scientific  mind  can  detect  some- 
thing deadly  almost  anywhere. 

Nor  is  it  safe  to  assume,  as  many  do, 
that  tobacco  predisposes  very  powerfully 
to  more  dangerous  dissipations.   The  non- 


i 


1861.] 


A  New  Counterblast, 


699 


smoking  Saxons  were  probably  far  more 
intemperate  in  drinking  than  the  modern 
English;  and  Lane,  the  best  authority, 
points  out  that  wine  is  now  far  less  used 
by  the  Orientals  than  at  the  time  of  the 
"  Arabian  Nights,"  when  tobacco  had  not 
been  introduced.  And  in  respect  to  yet 
more  perilous  sensual  excesses,  tobacco  is 
now  admitted,  both  by  friends  and  foes, 
to  be  quite  as  much  a  sedative  as  a  stimu- 
lant. 

The  point  of  objection  on  the  ground 
of  inordinate  expense  is  doubtless  better 
taken,  and  can  be  met  only  by  substan- 
tial proof  that  the  enormous  outlay  is  a 
wise  one.  Tobacco  may  be  "  the  ano- 
dyne of  poverty,"  as  somebody  has  said, 
but  it  certainly  promotes  poverty.  This 
narcotic  lulls  to  sleep  all  pecuniary  econ- 
omy. Every  pipe  may  not,  indeed,  cost 
so  much  as  that  jewelled  one  seen  by 
Dibdin  in  Vienna,  which  was  valued  at 
a  thousand  pounds ;  or  even  as  the  Ger- 
man meerschaum  which  was  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth  through  a  whole  regiment 
of  soldiers  till  it  was  colored  to  perfection, 
having  never  been  allowed  to  cool,— a  bill 
of  one  hundred  pounds  being  ultimately 
rendered  for  the  tobacco  consumed.  But 
how  heedlessly  men  squander  money  on 
this  pet  luxury  !  By  the  report  of  the 
English  University  Commissioners,  some 
ten  years  ago,  a  student's  annual  tobacco- 
bill  often  amounts  to  forty  pounds.  Dr. 
Solly  puts  thirty  pounds  as  the  lowest  an- 
nual expenditure  of  an  English  smoker, 
and  knows  many  who  spend  one  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds,  and  one  three  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year,  on  tobacco  alone.  In 
this  country  the  facts  are  hard  to  obtain, 
but  many  a  man  smokes  twelve  four- 
cent  cigars  a  day,  and  many  a  man  four 
twelve-cent  cigars,  —  spending  in  either 
case  about  half  a  dollar  a  day  and  not 
far  from  two  hundred  dollars  per  annum. 
An  industrious  mechanic  earns  his  two 
dollars  and  fifty  cents  a  day  or  a  clerk 
his  eight  hundred  dollars  a  year,  spends 
a  quarter  of  it  on  tobacco,  and  the  rest  on 
his  wife,  children,  and  miscellaneous  ex- 
penses. 

But  the  impotency  which  marks  some 


of  the  stock  arguments  against  tobacco 
extends  to  most  of  those  in  favor  of  it. 
My  friend  assures  me  that  every  one 
needs  some  narcotic,  that  the  American 
brain  is  too  active,  and  that  the  influence 
of  tobacco  is  quieting,  —  great  is  the  en- 
joyment of  a  comfortable  pipe  after  din- 
ner. I  grant,  on  observing  him  at  that 
period,  that  it  appears  so.  But  I  also 
observe,  that,  when  the  placid  hour  has 
passed  away,  his  nervous  system  is  more 
susceptible,  his  hand  more  tremulous,  his 
temper  more  irritable  on  slight  occa- 
sions, than  during  the  days  when  the 
comfortable  pipe  chances  to  be  omitted. 
The  only  effect  of  the  narcotic  appears, 
therefore,  to  be  a  demand  for  another 
narcotic ;  and  there  seems  no  decided  ad- 
vantage over  the  life  of  the  birds  and 
bees,  who  appear  to  keep  their  nervous 
systems  in  tolerably  healthy  condition 
with  no  narcotic  at  all. 

The  argument  drawn  from  a  compari- 
son of  races  is  no  better.  Germans  are 
vigorous  and  Turks  are  long-lived,  and 
they  are  all  great  smokers.  But  certain- 
ly the  Germans  do  not  appear  so  viva- 
cious, nor  the  Turks  so  energetic,  as  to 
afford  triumphant  demonstrations  in  be- 
half of  the  sacred  weed.  Moreover,  the 
Eastern  tobacco  is  as  much  milder  than 
ours  as  are  the  Continental  wines  than 
even  those  semi-alcoholic  mixtures  which 
prevail  at  scrupulous  communion-tables. 
And  as  for  German  health,  Dr.  Schneider 
declares,  in  the  London  "  Lancet,"  that  it 
is  because  of  smoke  that  all  his  educated 
countrymen  wear  spectacles,  that  an  im- 
mense amount  of  consumption  is  produced 
in  Germany  by  tobacco,  and  that  English 
insurance  companies  are  proverbially  cau- 
tious in  insuring  German  lives.  Dr.  Car- 
lyon  gives  much  the  same  as  his  obser- 
vation in  Holland.  These  facts  may  be 
overstated,  but  they  are  at  least  as  good 
as  those  which  they  answer. 

Not  much  better  is  the  excuse  alleged 
in  the  social  and  genial  influences  of  to- 
bacco. It  certainly  seems  a  singular  way 
of  opening  the  lips  for  conversation  by 
closing  them  on  a  pipe-stem,  and  it  would 
rather  appear  as  if  Fate  designed  to  gag 


700 


A  New   Counterblast. 


[December, 


the  smokers  and  let  the  non-smokers  talk. 
But  supposing  it  otherwise,  does  it  not 
mark  a  condition  of  extreme  juvenility 
in  our  social  development,  if  no  resources 
of  intellect  can  enable  a  half-dozen  intel- 
ligent men  to  be  agreeable  to  each  other, 
without  applying  the  forcing  process,  by 
turning  the  room  into  an  imperfectly  or- 
ganized chimney  ?  Brilliant  women  can 
be  brilliant  without  either  wine  or  tobac- 
co, and  Napoleon  always  maintained  that 
•without  an  admixture  of  feminine  wit 
conversation  grew  tame.  Are  all  male 
beings  so  much  stupider  by  nature  than 
the  other  sex,  that  men  require  stimu- 
lants and  narcotics  to  make  them  mutual- 
ly endurable  ? 

And  as  the  conversational  superiori- 
ties of  woman  disprove  the  supposed  so- 
cial inspirations  of  tobacco,  so  do  her  more 
refined  perceptions  yet  more  emphatical- 
ly pronounce  its  doom.  Though  belles 
of  the  less  mature  description,  eulogistic 
of  sophomores,  may  stoutly  profess  that 
they  dote  on  the  Virginian  perfume,  yet 
cultivated  womanhood  barely  tolerates 
the  choicest  tobacco-smoke,  even  in  its 
freshness,  and  utterly  recoils  from  the 
stale  suggestions  of  yesterday.  By  what- 
ever enthusiasm  misled,  she  finds  some- 
thing abhorrent  in  the  very  nature  of  the 
thing.  In  vain  did  loyal  Frenchmen  bap- 
tize the  weed  as  the  queen's  own  favor- 
ite, Herha  Catherince  Medicce;  it  is  easier 
to  admit  that  Catherine  de'  Medici  was 
not  feminine  than  that  tobacco  is.  Man 
also  recognizes  the  antagonism ;  there  is 
scarcely  a  husband  in  America  who  would 
not  be  converted  from  smoking,  if  his  wife 
resolutely  demanded  her  right  of  moiety 
in  the  cigar-box.  No  Lady  Mary,  no 
loveliest  Marquise,  could  make  snufi- 
taking  beauty  otherwise  than  repugnant 
to  this  generation.  Rustic  females  who 
habitually  chew  even  pitch  or  spruce- 
gum  are  rendered  thereby  so  repulsive 
that  the  fancy  refuses  to  pursue  the  hor- 
ror farther  and  imagine  it  tobacco ;  and 
all  the  charms  of  the  veil  and  the  fan 
can  scarcely  reconcile  the  most  fumacious 
American  to  the  cigarrito  of  the  Spanish 
fair.     How  strange  seems  Barton's  pic- 


ture of  General  Jackson  puffing  his  long 
clay  pipe  on  one  side  of  the  fireplace 
and  Mrs.  Jackson  puffing  hers  on  the 
other !  No  doubt,  to  the  heart  of  the 
chivalrous  backwoodsman  those  smoke- 
dried  lips  were  yet  the  altar  of  early 
passion, —  as  that  rather  ungrammatical 
tongue  was  still  the  music  of  the  spheres ; 
but  the  unattractiveness  of  that  conju- 
gal counterblast  is  Nature's  own  protest 
against  smoking. 

The  use  of  tobacco  must,  therefore,  be 
held  to  mark  a  rather  coarse  and  childish 
epoch  in  our  civilization,  if  nothing  worse. 
Its  most  ardent  admirer  hardly  paints  it 
into  his  picture  of  the  Golden  Age.  It 
is  difficult  to  associate  it  with  one's  fan- 
cies of  the  noblest  manhood,  and  Miss 
Muloch  reasonably  defies  the  human  im- 
agination to  portray  Shakspeare  or  Dan- 
te with  pipe  in  mouth.  Goethe  detested 
it ;  so  did  Napoleon,  save  in  the  form  of 
snuff*,  which  he  apparently  used  on  Tal- 
leyrand's principle,  that  diplomacy  was 
impossible  without  it.  Bacon  said,  "  To- 
bacco-smoking is  a  secret  delight  serving 
only  to  steal  away  men's  brains."  New- 
ton abstained  from  it :  the  contrary  is  of- 
ten claimed,  but  thus  says  his  biographer, 
Brewster,  —  saying  that  "  he  would  make 
no  necessities  to  himself."  Franklin  says 
he  never  used  it,  and  never  met  with  one 
of  its  votaries  who  advised  him  to  follow 
the  example.  John  Quincy  Adams  used 
it  in  early  youth,  and  after  thirty  years  of 
abstinence  said,  that,  if  every  one  would 
try  abstinence  for  three  months,  it  would 
annihilate  the  practice,  and  add  five  years 
to  the  average  length  of  human  life. 

In  attempting  to  go  beyond  these  gen- 
eral charges  of  waste  and  foolishness,  and 
to  examine  the  physiological  results  of  the 
use  of  tobacco,  one  is  met  by  the  contra- 
dictions and  perplexities  which  haunt  all 
such  inquiries.  Doctors,  of  course,  disa- 
gree, and  the  special  cases  cited  triumph- 
antly by  either  side  are  ruled  out  as  excep- 
tional by  the  other.  It  is  like  the  question 
of  the  precise  degree  of  injury  done  by  al- 
coholic drinks.  To-day's  newspaper  writes 
the  eulogy  of  A.  B.,  who  recently  died  at 
the  age  of  ninety-nine,  without  ever  tast- 


1861.] 


A  New   CounterhlasL 


701 


ing  ardent  spirits ;  to-morrow's  will  add 
the  epitaph  of  C.  D.,  aged  one  hundred, 
who  has  imbibed  a  quart  of  rum  a  day 
since  reaching  the  age  of  indiscretion ;  and 
yet,  after  all,  both  editors  have  to  admit 
that  the  drinking  usages  of  society  are 
growing  decidedly  more  decent.  It  is 
the  same  with  the  tobacco  argument.  In- 
dividual cases  prove  nothing  either  way ; 
there  is  such  a  range  of  vital  vigor  in  dif- 
ferent individuals,  that  one  may  withstand 
a  life  of  error,  and  another  perish  in  spite 
of  prudence.  The  question  is  of  the  gen- 
eral tendency.  It  is  not  enough  to  know 
that  Dr.  Parr  smoked  twenty  pipes  in  an 
evening,  and  lived  to  be  seventy-eight; 
that  Thomas  Hobbes  smoked  thirteen, 
and  survived  to  ninety-two ;  that  Brissiac 
of  Trieste  died  at  one  hundred  and  six- 
teen, with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth ;  and  that 
Henry  Hartz  of  Schleswig  used  tobacco 
steadily  from  the  age  of  sixteen  to  one 
hundred  and  forty-two ;  nor  would  any 
accumulation  of  such  healthy  old  sinners 
prove  anything  satisfactory.  It  seems  rath- 
er overwhelming,  to  be  sure,  when  Mr. 
Fairholt  assures  us  that  his  respected  fa- 
ther "  died  at  the  age  of  seventy-two  :  he 
had  been  twelve  hours  a  day  in  a  tobacco- 
manufactory  for  nearly  fifty  years ;  and 
he  both  smoked  and  chewed  while  busy 
in  the  labors  of  the  workshop,  sometimes 
in  a  dense  cloud  of  steam  from  drying  the 
damp  tobacco  over  the  stoves;  and  his 
health  and  appetite  were  perfect  to  the 
day  of  his  death  :  he  was  a  model  of  mus- 
cular and  stomachic  energy ;  in  which  his 
son,  who  neither  smokes,  snuffs,  nor  chews, 
by  no  means  rivals  him."  But  until  we 
know  precisely  what  capital  of  health  the 
venerable  tobacconist  inherited  from  his 
fathers,  and  in  what  condition  he  trans- 
mitted it  to  his  sons,  the  statement  cer- 
tainly has  two  edges. 

For  there  are  facts  equally  notorious 
on  the  other  side.  It  is  not  denied  that 
it  is  found  necessary  to  exclude  tobacco, 
as  a  general  rule,  from  insane  asylums, 
or  that  it  produces,  in  extreme  cases, 
among  perfectly  sober  persons,  effects 
akin  to  delirium  tremens.  Nor  is  it  de- 
nied that  terrible  local  diseases  follow  it, — 


as,  for  instance,  cancer  of  the  mouth,  which 
has  become,  according  to  the  eminent  sur- 
geon, Brouisson,  the  disease  most  dreaded 
in  the  French  hospitals.  He  has  perform- 
ed sixty-eight  operations  for  this,  within 
fourteen  years,  in  the  Hospital  St.  Eloi, 
and  traces  it  entirely  to  the  use  of  tobac- 
co. Such  facts  are  chiefly  valuable  as 
showing  the  tendency  of  the  thing.  Where 
the  evils  of  excess  are  so  glaring,  the  ad- 
vantages of  even  moderate  use  are  ques- 
tionable. Where  weak  persons  are  made 
insane,  there  is  room  for  suspicion  that 
the  strong  may  suffer  unconsciously.  You 
may  say  that  the  victims  must  have  been 
constitiitionally  nervous  ;  but  where  is  the 
native-born  American  who  is  not  ? 

In  France  and  England  the  recent  in- 
quiries into  the  effects  of  tobacco  seem 
to  have  been  a  little  more  systematic 
than  our  own.  In  the  former  country, 
the  newspapers  state,  the  attention  of 
the  Emperor  was  called  to  the  fact  that 
those  pupils  of  the  Polytechnic  School 
who  used  this  indulgence  were  decided- 
ly inferior  in  average  attainments  to  the 
rest.  This  is  stated  to  have  led  to  its 
prohibition  in  the  school,  and  to  the 
forming  of  an  anti-tobacco  organization, 
which  is  said  to  be  making  great  progress 
in  France.  I  cannot,  however,  obtain 
from  any  of  our  medical  libraries  any 
satisfactory  information  as  to  the  French 
agitation,  and  am  led  by  private  advices 
to  believe  that  even  these  general  state- 
ments are  hardly  trustworthy.  The  re- 
cent English  discussions  are,  however, 
more  easy  of  access. 

"  The  Great  Tobacco  Question,"  as 
the  controversy  in  England  was  called, 
originated  in  a  Clinical  Lecture  on  Par 
ralysis,  by  Mr.  Solly,  Surgeon  of  St. 
Thomas's  Hospital,  which  was  published 
in  the  "  Lancet,"  December  13, 1856.  He 
incidentally  spoke  of  tobacco  as  an  im- 
portant source  of  this  disease,  and  went 
on  to  say,  —  "I  know  of  no  single  vice 
which  does  so  much  harm  as  smoking. 
It  is  a  snare  and  a  delusion.  It  soothes 
the  excited  nervous  system  at  the  time, 
to  render  it  more  irritable  and  feeble  ul- 
timately.  It  is  like  opium  in  this  respect ; 


702 


A  New   Counterblast 


[December, 


and  if  you  want  to  know  all  the  wretch- 
edness which  this  drug  can  produce,  you 
should  read  the  '  Confessions  of  an  Eng- 
lish Opium-Eater.* "  This  statement  was 
presently  echoed  by  J.  Ranald  Martin, 
an  eminent  surgeon,  "  whose  Eastern 
experience  rendered  his  opinion  of  im- 
mense value,"  and  who  used  language  al- 
most identical  with  that  of  Mr.  Solly :  — 
"  I  can  state  of  my  own  observation,  that 
the  miseries,  mental  and  bodily,  which  I 
have  witnessed  from  the  abuse  of  cigar- 
smoking,  far  exceed  anything  detailed  in 
the  '  Confessions  of  an  Opium-Eater.' " 

This  led  off  a  controversy  which  con- 
tinued for  several  months  in  the  columns 
of  the  "  Lancet,"  —  a  controversy  con- 
ducted in  a  wonderfully  good-natured 
spirit,  considering  that  more  than  fifty 
physicians  took  part  in  it,  and  that  these 
were  almost  equally  divided.  The  de- 
bate took  a  wide  range,  and  some  inter- 
esting facts  were  elicited  :  as  that  Lord 
Raglan,  General  Markham,  and  Admi- 
rals Dundas  and  Napier  always  aban- 
doned tobacco  from  the  moment  when 
they  were  ordered  on  actual  service ; 
that  nine-tenths  of  the  first-class  men  at 
the  Universities  were  non-smokers;  that 
two  Indian  chiefs  told  Power,  the  actor, 
that  "  those  Lidians  who  smoked  gave 
out  soonest  in  the  chase  " ;  and  so  on. 
There  were  also  American  examples, 
rather  loosely  gathered  :  thus,  a  remark 
of  the  venerable  Dr.  Waterhouse,  made 
many  years  ago,  was  cited  as  the  con- 
temporary opinion  of  "  the  Medical  Pro- 
fessor in  Harvard  University " ;  also  it 
was  mentioned,  as  an  acknowledged  fact, 
that  the  American  physique  was  rapid- 
ly deteriorating  because  of  tobacco,  and 
that  coroners'  verdicts  were  constantly 
being  thus  pronounced  on  American 
youths :  "  Died  of  excessive  smoking." 
On  the  other  hand,  that  eminent  citizen 
of  our  Union,  General  Thomas  Thumb, 
was  about  that  time  professionally  exam- 
ined in  London,  and  his  verdict  on  to- 
bacco was  quoted  to  be,  that  it  was  "  one 
of  his  chief  comforts  " ;  also  mention  was 
made  of  a  hapless  quack  who  announced 
himself  as  coming  from  Boston,  and  who, 


to  keep  up  the  Yankee  reputation,  issued 
a  combined  advertisement  of  "  medical 
advice  gratis"  and  "prime  cigars." 

But  these  stray  American  instances 
were  of  course  quite  outnumbered  by 
the  English,  and  there  is  scarcely  an  ill 
which  was  not  in  this  controversy  charg- 
ed upon  tobacco  by  its  enemies,  nor  a 
physical  or  moral  benefit  which  was  not 
claimed  for  it  by  its  friends.  According 
to  these,  it  prevents  dissension  and  dysp- 
noea, inflammation  and  insanity,  saves 
the  waste  of  tissue  and  of  time,  blunts 
the  edge  of  grief  and  lightens  pain.  "  No 
man  was  ever  in  a  passion  with  a  pipe  in 
his  mouth."  There  are  more  female  lu- 
natics chiefly  because  the  fumigatory  ed- 
ucation of  the  fair  sex  has  been  neglect- 
ed. Yet  it  is  important  to  notice  that 
these  same  advocates  almost  outdo  its 
opponents  in  admitting  its  liability  to 
misuse,  and  the  perilous  consequences. 
"  The  injurious  efiects  of  excessive  smok- 
ing," —  "  there  is  no  more  pitiable  object 
than  the  inveterate  smoker,"  —  "  seden- 
tary life  is  incompatible  with  smoking," 

—  highly  pernicious,  —  general  debility, 

—  secretions  all  wrong,  —  cerebral  soft- 
ening, —  partial  paralysis,  —  trembling 
of  the  hand,  —  enervation  and  depres- 
sion, —  great  irritability,  —  neuralgia,  — 
narcotism  of  the  heart :  this  Chamber  of 
Horrors  forms  a  part  of  the  very  Temple 
of  Tobacco,  as  builded,  not  by  foes,  but  by 
worshippers.  "  All  men  of  observation 
and  experience,"  they  admit,  "  must  be 
able  to  point  to  instances  of  disease  and 
derangement  from  the  abuse  of  this  lux- 
ury." Yet  they  advocate  it,  as  the  same 
men  advocate  intoxicating  drinks ;  not 
meeting  the  question,  in  either  case, 
whether  it  be  wise,  or  even  generous,  for 
the  strong  to  continue  an  indulgence 
which  is  thus  confessedly  ruinous  to  the 
weak. 

The  controversy  had  its  course,  and 
ended,  like  most  controversies,  without 
establishing  anything.  The  editor  of  the 
"  Lancet,"  to  be  sure,  summed  up  the 
evidence  very  fairly,  and  it  is  worth 
while  to  quote  him :  —  "It  is  almost  un- 
necessary to   make   a   separate  inquiry 


1861.] 


A  New   Counterblast. 


703 


into  the  pathological  conditions  which 
follow  upon  excessive  smoking.  Abun- 
dant evidence  has  been  adduced  of  the 
gigantic  evils  which  attend  the  abuse  of 
tobacco.  Let  it  be  granted  at  once  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  moderate  smok- 
ing, and  let  it  be  admitted  that  we  can- 
not accuse  tobacco  of  being  guilty  of  the 
whole  of  Cullen's  *  Nosology ' ;  it  4ill  re- 
mains that  there  is  a  long  catalogue  of 
frightful  penalties  attached  to  its  abuse." 
He  then  proceeds  to  consider  what  is  to 
be  called  abuse:  as,  for  instance,  smok- 
ing more  than  one  or  two  cigars  or  pipes 
daily,  —  smoking  too  early  in  the  day  or 
too  early  in  life,  —  and  in  general,  the 
use  of  tobacco  by  those  with  whom  it 
does  not  agree,  —  which  rather  reminds 
one  of  the  early  temperance  pledges, 
which  bound  a  man  to  drink  no  more 
rum  than  he  found  to  be  good  for  him. 
But  the  Chief  Justice  of  the  Medical 
Court  finally  instructs  his  jury  of  read- 
ers that  young  men  should  give  up  a 
dubious  pleasure  for  a  certain  good,  and 
abandon  tobacco  altogether:  —  "  Shun  the 
habit  of  smoking  as  you  would  shun  self- 
destruction.  As  you  value  your  phys- 
ical and  moral  well-being,  avoid  a  habit 
which  for  you  can  offer  no  advantage  to 
compare  with  the  dangers  you  incur." 

Yet,  after  all,  neither  he  nor  his  wit- 
nesses seem  fairly  to  have  hit  upon  what 
seem  to  this  present  writer  the  two  in- 
controvertible arguments  against  tobac- 
co; one  being  drawn  from  theory,  and 
the  other  from  practice. 

First,  as  to  the  theory  of  the  thing.  The 
laws  of  Nature  warn  every  man  who  uses 
tobacco  for  the  first  time,  that  he  is  deal- 
ing with  a  poison.  Nobody  denies  this 
attribute  of  the  plant ;  it  is  "  a  narcotic 
poison  of  the  most  active  class."  It  is 
not  merely  that  a  poison  can  by  chemical 
process  be  extracted  from  it,  but  it  is  a  poi- 
son in  its  simplest  form.  Its  mere  appli- 
cation to  the  skin  has  often  produced  un- 
controllable nausea  and  prostration.  Chil- 
dren have  in  several  cases  been  killed 
by  the  mere  application  of  tobacco  oint- 
ment to  the  head.  Soldiers  have  simu- 
lated sickness  by  placing  it  beneath  the 


armpits,  —  though  in  most  cases  our  reg- 
iments would  probably  consider  this  a 
mistaken  application  of  the  treasure.  To- 
bacco, then,  is  simply  and  absolutely  a 
poison. 

Now  to  say  that  a  substance  is  a  poi- 
son is  not  to  say  that  it  inevitably  kills  ; 
it  may  be  apparently  innocuous,  if  not 
incidentally  beneficial.  King  Mithri- 
dates,  it  is  said,  learned  habitually  to 
consume  these  dangerous  commodities ; 
and  the  scarcely  less  mythical  Du  Chail- 
lu,  after  the  fatigues  of  his  gorilla  war- 
fare, found  decided  benefit  from  two 
ounces  of  arsenic.  But  to  say  that  a 
substance  is  a  poison  is  to  say  at  least  that 
it  is  a  noxious  drug,  —  that  it  is  a  medi- 
cine, not  an  aliment,  —  that  its  efiects  are 
pathological,  not  physiological,  —  and  that 
its  use  should  therefore  be  exceptional, 
not  habitual.  Not  tending  to  the  preser- 
vation of  a  normal  state,  but  at  best  to 
the  correction  of  some  abnormal  one,  its 
whole  value,  if  it  have  any,  lies  in  the  rar- 
ity of  its  application.  To  apply  a  pow- 
erful drug  at  a  certain  hour  every  day 
is  like  a  schoolmaster's  whipping  his  pu- 
pil at  a  certain  hour  every  day :  the  vic- 
tim may  become  inured,  but  undoubted- 
ly the  specific  value  of  the  remedy  must 
vanish  with  the  repetition. 

Thus  much  would  be  true,  were  it 
proved  that  tobacco  is  in  some  cases  ap- 
parently beneficial.  No  drug  is  bene- 
ficial, when  constantly  employed.  But, 
furthermore,  if  not  beneficial,  it  then  is 
injurious.  As  Dr.  Holmes  has  so  forcibly 
expounded,  every  medicine  is  in  itself 
hurtful.  All  noxious  agents,  according 
to  him,  cost  a  patient,  on  an  average,  five 
per  cent,  of  his  vital  power ;  that  is,  twen- 
ty times  as  much  would  kill  him.  It  is 
believed  that  they  are  sometimes  indi- 
rectly useful ;  it  is  known  that  they  are 
always  directly  hurtful.  That  is,  I  have 
a  neighbor  on  one  side  who  takes  tobacco 
to  cure  his  dyspepsia,  and  a  neighbor  on 
the  other  side  who  takes  blue  pill  for  his 
infirmities  generally.  The  profit  of  the 
operation  may  be  sure  or  doubtful ;  the 
outlay  is  certain,  and  to  be  deducted  in 
any  event.    I  have  no  doubt,  my  dear 


704 


A  New   Counterblast, 


[December, 


Madam,  that  your  interesting  son  has 
learned  to  smoke,  as  he  states,  in  order 
to  check  that  very  distressing  toothache 
which  so  hindered  his  studies  ;  but  I  sin- 
cerely think  it  would  be  better  to  have 
the  affliction  removed  by  a  dentist  at  a 
cost  of  fifty  cents  than  by  a  drug  at  an 
expense  of  five  per  cent,  of  vital  pow- 
er. 

Fortunately,  when  it  comes  to  the  prac- 
tical test,  the  whole  position  is  conceded 
to  our  hands,  and  the  very  devotees  of 
tobacco  are  false  to  their  idol.  It  is  not 
merely  that  the  most  fumigatory  parent 
dissuades  his  sons  from  the  practice ;  but 
there  is  a  more  remarkable  instance.  If 
any  two  classes  can  be  singled  out  in  the 
community  as  the  largest  habitual  con- 
sumers of  tobacco,  it  must  be  the  college 
students  and  the  city  "  roughs  "  or  "  row- 
dies," or  whatever  the  latest  slang  name 
is,  —  for  these  roysterers,  like  oysters,  in- 
cline to  names  with  an  r  in.  Now  the 
"  rough,"  when  brought  to  a  physical  cli- 
max, becomes  the  prize-fighter  ;  and  the 
college  student  is  seen  in  his  highest  con- 
dition as  the  prize-oarsman ;  and  both 
these  representative  men,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances of  ambition,  straightway  aban- 
don tobacco.  Such  a  concession,  from 
such  a  quainter,  is  worth  all  the  denun- 
ciations of  good  Mr.  Trask.  Appeal,  O 
anxious  mother !  from  Philip  smoking  to 
Philip  training.  What  your  progeny  will 
not  do  for  any  considerations  of  ethics  or 
economy, — to  save  his  sisters'  olfactories 
or  the  atmosphere  of  the  family  altar,  — 
that  he  does  unflinchingly  at  one  word 
from  the  stroke-oar  or  the  commodore. 
In  so  doing,  he  surrenders  every  inch  of 
the  ground,  and  owns  unequivocally  that 
he  is  in  better  condition  without  tobacco. 
The  old  traditions  of  training  are  in  some 
other  respects  being  softened  :  strawber- 
ries are  no  longer  contraband,  and  the 
last  agonies  of  thirst  are  no  longer  a  part 
of  the  prescription ;  but  training  and  to- 
bacco are  still  incompatible.  There  is 
not  a  regatta  or  a  prize-fight  in  which  the 
betting  would  not  be  seriously  affected 
by  the  discovery  that  either  party  used 
the  beguiling  weed. 


The  argument  is  irresistible,  —  or  rath- 
er, it  is  not  so  much  an  argument  as  a 
plea  of  guilty  under  the  indictment.  The 
prime  devotees  of  tobacco  voluntarily 
abstain  from  it,  like  Lord  Raglan  and 
Admiral  Napier,  when  they  wish  to  be 
in  their  best  condition.  But  are  we  ever, 
any  of  us,  in  too  good  condition  ?  Have 
all  the%anitary  conventions  yet  succeed- 
ed in  detecting  one  man,  in  our  high- 
pressure  America,  who  finds  himself  too 
well  ?  If  a  man  goes  into  training  for 
the  mimic  contest,  why  not  for  the  actual 
one  ?  If  he  needs  steady  nerves  and  a 
cool  head  for  the  play  of  life,  —  and  even 
prize-fighting  is  called  "  sporting,"— why 
not  for  its  earnest  ?  Here  we  are  all 
croaking  that  we  are  not  in  the  health  in 
which  our  twentieth  birthday  found  us, 
and  yet  we  will  not  condescend  to  the 
wise  abstinence  which  even  twenty  prac- 
tises. Moderate  training  is  simply  a  ra- 
tional and  healthful  life. 

So  palpable  is  this,  that  there  is  strong 
reason  to  believe  that  the  increased  at- 
tention to  physical  training  is  operating 
against  tobacco.  If  we  may  trust  litera- 
ture, as  has  been  shown,  its  use  is  not 
now  so  great  as  formerly,  in  spite  of  the 
vague  guesses  of  alarmists.  "  It  is  esti- 
mated," says  Mr.  Coles,  "that  the  con- 
sumption of  tobacco  in  this  country  is 
eight  times  as  great  as  in  France  and 
three  times  as  great  as  in  England,  in 
proportion  to  the  population  " ;  but  there 
is  nothing  in  the  world  more  uncertain 
than  "  It  is  estimated."  It  is  frequently 
estimated,  for  instance,  that  nine  out  of 
ten  of  our  college  students  use  tobacco ; 
and  yet  by  the  statistics  of  the  last  grad- 
uating class  at  Cambridge  it  appears  that 
it  is  used  by  only  thirty-one  out  of  sev- 
enty-six. I  am  satisfied  that  the  extent 
of  the  practice  is  often  exaggerated.  In  a 
gymnastic  club  of  young  men,  for  instance, 
where  I  have  had  opportunity  to  take  the 
statistics,  it  is  found  that  less  than  one- 
quarter  use  it,  though  there  has  never 
been  any  agitation  or  discussion  of  the 
matter.  These  things  indicate  that  it 
can  no  longer  be  claimed,  as  Moliere  as- 
serted two  centuries  ago,  that  he  who 


1861.] 


The   Wolves, 


705 


lives  Tvithout  tobacco  is  not  worthy  to 
live. 

And  as  there  has  been  some  exagger- 
ation in  describing  the  extent  to  which 
Tobacco  is  King,  so  there  has  doubt- 
less been  some  overstatement  as  to  the 
cruelty  of  his  despotism.  Enough,  how- 
ever, remains  to  condemn  him.  The 
present  writer,  at  least,  has  the  firmest 
conviction,  from  personal  observation  and 
experience,  that  the  imagined  benefits  of 
tobacco-using  (which  have  never,  perhaps, 
been  better  stated  than  in  an  essay  which 
appeared  in  this  magazine,  in  August, 
1860)  are  ordinarily  an  illusion,  and  its 
evils  a  far  more  solid  reality,  —  that  it 
stimulates  only  to  enervate,  soothes  only 
to  depress,  —  that  it  neither  permanently 
calms  the  nerves  nor  softens  the  temper 
nor  enlightens  the  brain,  but  that  in  the 


end  its  tendencies  are  precisely  the  oppo- 
sites  of  these,  beside  the  undoubted  inci- 
dental objections  of  costliness  and  un- 
cleanness.  When  men  can  find  any  oth- 
er instance  of  a  poisonous  drug  which  is 
suitable  for  daily  consumption,  they  will 
be  more  consistent  in  using  this.  When 
it  is  admitted  to  be  innocuous  to  those 
who  are  in  training  for  athletic  feats,  it 
may  be  possible  to  suppose  it  beneficial 
to  those  who  are  out  of  training.  Mean- 
while there  seems  no  ground  for  its  sup- 
porters except  that  to  which  the  famous 
Robert  Hall  was  reduced,  as  he  says,  by 
"  the  Society  of  Doctors  of  Divinity."  He 
sent  a  message  to  Dr.  Clarke,  in  return 
for  a  pamphlet  against  tobacco,  that  he 
could  not  possibly  refute  his  arguments 
and  could  not  possibly  give  up   smok- 


THE   WOLVES. 

Ye  who  listen  to  stories  told. 

When  hearths  are  cheery  and  nights  are  cold, 

Of  the  lone  wood-side,  and  the  hungry  pack 
That  howls  on  the  fainting  traveller's  track,  — 

Flame-red  eyeballs  that  waylay, 

By  the  wintry  moon,  the  belated  sleigh,  — 

The  lost  child  sought  in  the  dismal  wood. 
The  little  shoes  and  the  stains  of  blood 

On  the  trampled  snow,  —  O  ye  that  hear, 
With  thrills  of  pity  or  chills  of  fear, 

Wishing  some  angel  had  been  sent 
To  shield  the  hapless  and  innocent,  — 

Know  ye  the  fiend  that  is  crueller  far 

Than  the  gaunt  gray  herds  of  the  forest  are  ? 


Swiftly  vanish  the  wild  fleet  tracks 
Before  the  rifle  and  woodman's  axe : 


706  The   Wolves.  [December. 

But  hark  to  the  comhig  of  unseen  feet, 
Pattering  by  night  through  the  city  street ! 

Each  wolf  that  dies  in  the  woodland  brown 
Lives  a  spectre  and  haunts  the  town. 

By  square  and  market  they  slink  and  prowl, 
In  lane  and  alley  they  leap  and  howl. 

All  night  they  snuff  and  snarl  before 

The  poor  patched  window  and  broken  door. 

They  paw  the  clapboards  and  claw  the  latch, 
At  every  crevice  they  whine  and  scratch. 

Their  tongues  are  subtle  and  long  and  thin, 
And  they  lap  the  living  blood  within. 

Icy  keen  are  the  teeth  that  tear, 
Red  as  ruin  the  eyes  that  glare. 

Children  crouched  in  corners  cold 
Shiver  in  tattered  garments  old, 

And  start  from  sleep  with  bitter  pangs 

At  the  touch  of  the  phantoms'  viewless  fangs. 

Weary  the  mother  and  worn  with  strife, 
Still  she  watches  and  fights  for  life. 

But  her  hand  is  feeble,  and  weapon  small : 
One  httle  needle  against  them  all ! 

In  evil  hour  the  daughter  fled 

From  her  poor  shelter  and  wretched  bed. 

Through  the  city's  pitiless  solitude 
To  the  door  of  sin  the  wolves  pursued. 

Fierce  the  father  and  grim  with  want. 
His  heart  is  gnawed  by  the  spectres  gaunt. 

Frenzied  stealing  forth  by  night. 

With  whetted  knife,  to  the  desperate  fight. 

He  thought  to  strike  the  spectres  dead, 
But  he  smites  his  brother  man  instead. 

O  you  that  listen  to  stories  told. 

When  hearths  are  cheery  and  nights  are  cold, 


1861.]  A  Story  of  To-Day,  707 

Weep  no  more  at  the  tales  you  hear, 

The  danger  is  close  and  the  wolves  are  near. 

Shudder  not  at  the  murderer's  name, 
Marvel  not  at  the  maiden's  shame. 

Pass  not  by  with  averted  eye 

The  door  where  the  stricken  children  cry. 

But  when  the  beat  of  the  unseen  feet 
Sounds  by  night  through  the  stormy  street, 

Follow  thou  where  the  spectres  glide  ; 
Stand  like  Hope  by  the  mother's  side  ; 

And  be  thyself  the  angel  sent 

To  shield  the  hapless  and  innocent 

He  gives  but  little  who  gives  his  tears, 
He  gives  his  best  who  aids  and  cheers. 

He  does  well  in  the  forest  wild 

Who  slays  the  monster  and  saves  the  child ; 

But  he  does  better,  and  merits  more, 

W^ho  drives  the  wolf  from  the  poor  man's  door. 


A   STORY  OF  TO-DAY. 

PART  III. 

Now  that  I  have  come  to  the  love  part  made  your  hair  stand  on  end  only  to  read 

of  ray  story,  I  am  suddenly  conscious  of  of  them, — dyed  at  their  birth  clear  through 

dingy  common  colors  on  the  palette  with  with  Pluto's  blackest  poison,  going  about 

which  I  have  been  painting.   I  wish  I  had  perpetually  seeking  innocent  maidens  and 

some  brilliant  dyes.     I  wish,  with  all  my  unsophisticated  old  men  to  devour.    That 

heart,  I  could  take  you  back  to  that "  Once  was  the  time  for  holding  up  virtue  and 

upon  a  time "  in  which  the  souls  of  our  vice ;  no  trouble  then  in  seeing  which 

grandmothers  delighted, — the  time  which  were  sheep  and  which  were  goats !      A 

Dr.  Johnson  sat  up  all  night  to  read  about  person  could  write  a  story  with  a  moral 

in  "  Evelina,"  —  the  time  when  all  the  to  it,  then,  I  should  hope  !     People  that 

celestial  virtues,  all  the  earthly  graces  were  born  in  those  days  had  no  fancy  for 

were  revealed  in  a  condensed  state  to  going  through  the  world  with  half-and-half 

man  through  the  blue  eyes  and  sumptu-  characters,  such  as  we  put  up  with ;  so 

ous  linens  of  some  Belinda  Portman  or  Nature  turned  out  complete  specimens  of 

Lord  Mortimer.      None   of  your  good-  each  class,  with  all  the  appendages  of  dress, 

hearted,  sorely-tempted  villains  then  !   It  fortune,  et  cetera,  chording  decently.    At 


708 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


[December, 


least,  so  those  veracious  histories  say.  The 
heroine,  for  instance,  gUdes  into  hfe  full- 
charged  with  rank,  virtues,  a  name  three- 
syllabled,  and  a  white  dress  that  never 
needs  washing,  ready  to  sail  through  dan- 
gers dire  into  a  triumphant  haven  of  mat- 
rimony ;  —  all  the  aristocrats  have  high 
foreheads  and  cold  blue  eyes ;  all  the  peas- 
ants are  old  women,  miraculously  grateful, 
in  neat  check  aprons,  or  sullen-browed  in- 
surgents planning  revolts  in  caves. 

Of  course,  I  do  not  mean  that  these 
times  are  gone :  they  are  alive  ( in  a  mod- 
ern fashion)  in  many  places  in  the  world ; 
some  of  my  friends  have  described  them 
in  prose  and  verse.  I  only  mean  to  say 
that  I  never  was  there  ;  I  was  born  un- 
lucky. I  am  willing  to  do  my  best,  but  I 
live  in  the  commonplace.  Once  or  twice 
I  have  rashly  tried  my  hand  at  dark  con- 
spiracies, and  women  rare  and  radiant  in 
Italian  bowers ;  but  I  have  a  friend  who 
is  sure  to  say,  "  Try  and  tell  us  about 
the  butcher  next  door,  my  dear."  If  I 
look  up  from  my  paper  now,  I  shall  be 
just  as  apt  to  see  our  dog  and  his  kennel 
as  the  white  sky  stained  with  blood  and 
Tyrian  purple.  I  never  saw  a  full-blood- 
ed saint  or  sinner  in  my  life.  The  cold- 
est villain  I  ever  knew  was  the  only  son 
of  his  mother,  and  she  a  widow,  —  and  a 
kinder  son  never  lived.  I  have  known 
people  capable  of  a  love  terrible  in  its 
strength ;  but  I  never  knew  such  a  case 
that  some  one  did  not  consider  its  expe- 
diency as  "  a  match  "  in  the  light  of  dol- 
lars and  cents.  As  for  heroines,  of  course 
I  know  beautiful  women,  and  good  as  fair. 
The  most  beautiful  is  delicate  and  pure 
enough  for  a  type  of  the  Madonna,  and 
has  a  heart  almost  as  warm  and  holy 
as  hers  who  was  blessed  among  wom- 
en. (Very  pure  blood  is  in  her  veins, 
too,  if  you  care  about  blood.)  But  at 
home  they  call  her  Tode  for  a  nickname ; 
all  we  can  do,  she  will  sinjr,  and  sinpf 
through  her  nose ;  and  on  washing-days 
she  often  cooks  the  dinner,  and  scolds 
wholesomely,  if  the  tea-napkins  are  not 
in  order.  Now,  what  is  anybody  to  do 
with  a  heroine  like  that  ?  I  have  known 
old  maids  in  abundance,  with  pathos  and 


sunshine  in  their  lives ;  but  the  old  maid 
of  novels  I  never  have  met,  who  abandon- 
ed her  soul  to  gossip,  —  nor  yet  the  other 
type,  a  life-long  martyr  of  unselfishness. 
They  are  mixed  generally,  and  are  not 
unlike  their  married  sisters,  so  far  as  I  can 
see.  Then  as  to  men,  certainly  I  know 
heroes.  One  man,  I  knew,  as  high  a  chev- 
alier in  heart  as  any  Bayard  of  them  all ; 
one  of  those  souls  simple  and  gentle  as  a 
woman,  tender  in  knightly  honor.  He 
was  an  old  man,  with  a  rusty  brown  coat 
and  rustier  wig,  who  spent  his  life  in  a 
dingy  village  office.  You  poets  would 
have  laughed  at  him.  Well,  well,  his 
history  never  will  be  written.  The  kind, 
sad,  blue  eyes  are  shut  now.  There  is 
a  little  farm -graveyard  overgrown  with 
pinvet  and  wild  grape-vines,  and  a  flat- 
tened grave  where  he  was  laid  to  rest; 
and  only  a  few  who  knew  him  when  they 
were  children  care  to  go  there,  and  think 
of  what  he  was  to  them.  But  it  was  not 
in  the  far  days  of  Chivalry  alone,  I  think, 
that  true  and  tender  souls  have  stood  in 
the  world  unwelcome,  and,  hurt  to  the 
quick,  have  turned  away  and  dumbly 
died.  Let  it  be.  Their  lives  are  not 
lost,  thank  God  ! 

I  meant  only  to  ask  you,  How  can  I 
help  it,  if  the  people  in  my  story  seem 
coarse  to  you,  —  if  the  hero,  unlike  all 
other  heroes,  stopped  to  count  the  cost 
before  he  fell  in  love,  —  if  it  made  his  fin- 
gers thrill  with  pleasure  to  touch  a  full 
pocket-book  as  well  as  his  mistress's  hand, 
—  not  being  withal,  this  Stephen  Holmes, 
a  man  to  be  despised  ?  A  hero,  rather, 
of  a  peculiar  type, — a  man,  more  than  oth- 
er men  :  the  very  mould  of  man,  doubt 
it  who  will,  that  women  love  longest  and 
most  madly.  Of  course,  if  I  could,  I 
would  have  blotted  out  every  meaimess 
or  flaw  before  I  showed  him  to  you;  I 
would  have  given  you  Margaret  an  impet- 
uous, whole-souled  woman,  glad  to  throw 
her  life  down  for  her  father  without  one 
bitter  thought  of  the  wife  and  mother  she 
might  have  been  ;  I  would  have  painted 
her  mother  tender  as  she  was,  forgetting 
how  pettish  she  grew  on  busy  days  :  but 
what  can  I  do  ?     I  must  show  you  men 


1861.] 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


709 


and  women  as  they  are  in  that  especial 
State  of  the  Union  where  I  live.  In  all 
the  others,  of  course,  it  is  very  different. 
Now,  being  prepared  for  disappointment, 
will  you  see  my  hero  ? 

He  had  sauntered  out  from  the  city  for 
a  morning  walk,— not  through  the  hills,  as 
Margaret  went,  going  home,  but  on  the 
other  side,  to  the  river,  over  which  you 
could  see  the  Prairie.  We  are  in  Indi- 
ana, remember.  The  sunlight  was  pure 
that  morning,  powerful,  tintless,  the  true 
wine  of  life  for  body  or  spirit.  Stephen 
Holmes  knew  that,  being  a  man  of  deli- 
cate animal  instincts,  and  so  used  it,  just 
as  he  had  used  the  dumb-bells  in  the  morn- 
ing. All  things  were  made  for  man,  were 
n't  they?  He  was  leaning  against  the 
door  of  the  school-house,  —  a  red,  flaunt- 
ing house,  the  daub  on  the  landscape :  but, 
having  his  back  to  it,  he  could  not  see  it, 
so  through  his  half-shut  eyes  he  suffered 
the  beauty  of  the  scene  to  act  on  him. 
Suffered  :  in  a  man,  according  to  his 
creed,  the  will  being  dominant,  and  all 
influences,  such  as  beauty,  pain,  religion, 
permitted  to  act  under  orders.    Of  course. 

It  was  a  peculiar  landscape, — like  the 
man  who  looked  at  it,  of  a  thoroughly 
American  type.  A  range  of  sharp,  dark 
hills,  with  a  sombre  depth  of  green  shad- 
ow in  the  clefts,  and  on  the  sides  massed 
forests  of  scarlet  and  flame  and  crimson. 
Above,  the  sharp  peaks  of  stone  rose  into 
the  wan  blue,  wan  and  pale  themselves, 
and  wearing  a  certain  air  of  fixed  calm, 
the  type  of  an  eternal  quiet.  At  the  base 
of  the  hills  lay  the  city,  a  dirty  mass  of 
bricks  and  smoke  and  dust,  and  at  its  far 
edge  flowed  the  Wabash,— deep  here,  tint- 
ed with  green,  writhing  and  gurgling  and 
curdling  on  the  banks  over  shelving  ledges 
of  lichen  and  mud-covered  rock.  Beyond 
it  yawned  the  opening  to  the  great  West, 
— the  Prairies.  Not  the  dreary  deadness 
here,  as  farther  west.  A  plain  dark  russet 
in  hue,— for  the  grass  was  sun-scorched, — 
stretching  away  into  the  vague  distance, 
intolerable,  silent,  broken  by  hillocks  and 
puny  streams  that  only  made  the  vastness 
and  silence  more  wide  and  heavy.  Its 
limitless  torpor  weighed  on  the  brain  ;  the 


eyes  ached,  stretching  to  find  some  break 
before  the  dull  russet  faded  into  the  am- 
ber of  the  horizon  and  was  lost.  An 
American  landscape  :  of  few  features, 
simple,  grand  in  outline  as  a  face  of  one 
of  the  early  gods.  It  lay  utterly  motion- 
less before  him,  not  a  fleck  of  cloud  in 
the  pure  blue  above,  even  where  the  mist 
rose  from  the  river ;  it  only  had  glorified 
the  clear  blue  into  clearer  violet. 

Holmes  stood  quietly  looking ;  he  could 
have  created  a  picture  like  this,  if  he  nev- 
er had  seen  one ;  therefore  he  was  able  to 
recognize  it,  accepted  it  into  his  soul,  and 
let  it  do  what  it  would  there. 

Suddenly  a  low  wind  from  the  far  Pa- 
cific coast  struck  from  the  amber  line 
where  the  sun  went  down.  A  faint  trem- 
ble passed  over  the  great  hills,  the  broad 
sweeps  of  color  darkened  from  base  to 
summit,  then  flashed  again,  —  while  be- 
low, the  prairie  rose  and  fell  like  a  dun 
sea,  and  rolled  in  long,  slow,  solemn 
waves. 

The  wind  struck  so  broad  and  fiercely 
in  Holmes's  face  that  he  caught  his  breath. 
It  was  a  savage  freedom,  he  thought,  in 
the  West  there,  whose  breath  blew  on 
him,  —  the  freedom  of  the  primitive  man, 
the  untamed  animal  man,  self-reliant  and 
self-assertant,  having  conquered  Nature. 
Well,  this  fierce  masterful  freedom  was 
good  for  the  soul,  sometimes,  doubtless. 
It  was  old  Knowles's  vital  air.  He  won- 
dered if  the  old  man  would  succeed  in 
his  hobby,  if  he  could  make  the  slavish 
beggars  and  thieves  in  the  alleys  yonder 
comprehend  this  fierce  freedom.  They 
craved  leave  to  live  on  sufferance  now, 
not  knowing  their  possible  divinity.  It 
was  a  desperate  remedy,  this  sense  of  un- 
checked liberty ;  but  their  disease  was  des- 
perate. As  for  himself,  he  did  not  need 
it;  that  element  was  not  lacking.  In  a 
mere  bodily  sense,  to  be  sure.  He  felt 
his  arm.  Yes,  the  cold  rigor  of  this  new 
life  had  already  worn  off  much  of  the 
clogging  weight  of  flesh,  strengthened  the 
muscles.  Six  months  more  in  the  West 
would  toughen  the  fibres  to  iron.  He 
raised  an  iron  weight  that  lay  on  the 
steps,  carelessly  testing  them.     For  the 


710 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


[December, 


rest,  he  was  going  back  here ;  something 
of  the  cold,  loose  freshness  got  into  his 
brain,  he  believed.  In  the  two  years  of 
absence  his  power  of  concentration  had 
been  stronger,  his  perceptions  more  free 
from  prejudice,  gaining  every  day  deli- 
cate point,  acuteness  of  analysis.  He  drew 
a  long  breath  of  the  icy  air,  coarse  with 
the  wild  perfume  of  the  prairie.  No,  his 
temperament  needed  a  subtiler  atmos- 
phere than  this,  rarer  essence  than  mere 
brutal  freedom.  The  East,  the  Old  World, 
was  his  proper  sphere  for  self  -  develop- 
ment. He  would  go  as  soon  as  he  could 
command  the  means,  leaving  all  c1o<ts  be- 
hind.  All?  His  idle  thought  balked  here, 
suddenly ;  the  sallow  forehead  contracted 
sharply,  and  his  gray  eyes  grew  in  an  in- 
stant shallow,  careless,  formal,  as  a  man 
who  holds  back  his  thought.  There  was 
a  fierce  warring  in  his  brain  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  he  brushed  his  Kossuth  hat 
with  his  arm,  and  put  it  on,  looking  out  at 
the  landscape  again.  Somehow  its  mean- 
ing was  dulled  to  him.  Just  then  a  muddy 
terrier  came  up,  and  rubbed  itself  against 
his  knee.  "  Why,  Tige,  old  boy  ! "  he 
said,  stooping  to  pat  it  kindly.  The  hard, 
shallow  look  faded  out,  and  he  half  smil- 
ed, looking  in  the  dog's  eyes.  A  curious 
smile,  unspeakably  tender  and  sad.  It 
was  the  idiosyncrasy  of  the  man's  face, 
rarely  seen  there.  He  might  have  looked 
with  it  at  a  criminal,  condemning  him  to 
death.  But  he  would  have  condemned 
him,  and,  if  no  hangman  could  be  found, 
would  have  put  the  rope  on  with  his  own 
hands,  and  then  most  probably  would  have 
sat  down  pale  and  trembling,  and  analyz- 
ed his  sensations  on  paper, — being  sin- 
cere in  all. 

He  sat  down  on  the  school-house  step, 
which  the  boys  had  hacked  and  whittled 
rough,  and  waited;  for  he  was  there  by 
appointment,  to  meet  Dr.  Knowles. 

Knowles  had  gone  out  early  in  the 
morning  to  look  at  the  ground  he  was 
going  to  buy  for  his  Phalanstery,  or  what- 
ever he  chose  to  call  it.  He  was  to  bring 
the  deed  of  sale  of  the  mill  out  with  him 
for  Holmes.  The  next  day  it  was  to  be 
signed.     Holmes  saw  him  at  last  lumber- 


ing across  the  prairie,  wiping  the  perspira- 
tion from  his  forehead.  Summer  or  win- 
ter, he  contrived  to  be  always  hot.  There 
was  a  cart  drawn  by  an  old  donkey  com- 
ing along  beside  him.  Knowles  was  talk- 
ing to  the  driver.  The  old  man  clapped 
his  hands  as  stage-coachmen  do,  and  drew 
in  long  draughts  of  air,  as  if  there  were 
keen  life  and  promise  in  every  breath. 
They  came  up  at  last,  the  cart  empty,  and 
drying  for  the  day's  work  after  its  morn- 
ing's scrubbing,  Lois's  pock-marked  face 
all  in  a  glow  with  trying  to  keep  Barney 
awake.  She  grew  quite  red  with  pleas- 
ure at  seeing  Holmes,  but  went  on  quick- 
ly as  the  men  began  to  talk.  Tige  fol- 
lowed her,  of  course ;  but  when  she  had 
gone  a  little  way  across  the  prairie,  they 
saw  her  stop,  and  presently  the  dog  came 
back  with  something  in  his  mouth,  which 
he  laid  down  beside  his  master,  and  bolted 
off.  It  was  only  a  rough  wicker-basket 
which  she  had  filled  with  damp  plushy 
moss,  and  half-buried  in  it  clusters  of 
plumy  fern,  delicate  brown  and  ashen 
lichens,  masses  of  forest-leaves  all  shaded 
green  with  a  few  crimson  tints.  It  had 
a  clear  woody  smell,  like  far-off  myrrh. 
The  Doctor  laughed  as  Holmes  took  it 
up. 

"  An  artist's  gift,  if  it  is  from  a  mulat- 
to," he  said.     "  A  born  colorist." 

The  men  were  not  at  ease,  for  some 
reason ;  they  seized  on  every  trifle  to 
keep  oflT  the  subject  which  had  brought 
them  together. 

"  That  girl's  artist-sense  is  pure,  and 
her  religion,  down  under  the  perversion 
and  ignorance  of  her  brain.  Curious,  eh  ?  " 

"  Look  at  the  top  of  her  head,  when 
you  see  her,"  said  Holmes.  "  It  is  neces- 
sity for  such  brains  to  worship.  They  let 
the  fire  lick  their  blood,  if  they  happen 
to  be  born  Parsees.  This  girl,  if  she  had 
been  a  Jew  when  Christ  was  born,  would 
have  known  him  as  Simeon  did." 

Knowles  said  nothing,  —  only  glanced 
at  the  massive  head  of  the  speaker,  with 
its  overhanging  brow,  square  develop- 
ment at  the  sides,  and  lowered  crown, 
and  smiled  significantly. 

"  Exactly,"  laughed   Holmes,  putting 


1861.] 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


Ill 


his  hand  on  his  head.  "  Crippled  there  by 
my  Yorkshire  blood,  —  my  mother.  Nev- 
er mind  ;  outside  of  this  life,  blood  or  cir- 
cumstance matters  nothing." 

They  walked  on  slowly  towards  town. 
Surely  there  was  nothing  in  the  bill-of- 
sale  which  the  old  man  had  in  his  pocket 
but  a  mere  matter  of  business ;  yet  they 
were  strangely  silent  about  it,  as  if  it 
brought  shame  to  some  one.  There  was 
an  embarrassed  pause.  The  Doctor  went 
back  to  Lois  for  relief 

"I  think  it  is  the  pain  and  want  of 
such  as  she  that  makes  them  susceptible 
to  religion.  The  self  in  them  is  so  starv- 
ed and  humbled  that  it  cannot  obscure 
their  eyes  ;  they  see  God  clearly." 

"  Say  rather,"  said  Holmes,  "  that  the 
soul  is  so  starved  and  blind  that  it  can- 
not recognize  itself  as  God." 

The  Doctor's  intolerant  eye  kindled. 

"  Humph  !  So  that  's  your  creed  ! 
Not  Pantheism.  Ego  sum.  Of  course 
you  go  on  with  the  conjugation :  /  have 
been,  I  shall  he.  I,  —  that  covers  the 
whole  ground,  creation,  redemption,  and 
commands  the  hereafter  ?  " 

"  It  does  so,"  said  Holmes,  coolly. 

"  And  this  wretched  huckster  carries 
her  deity  about  her, —  her  self-existent 
soul  ?  How,  in  God's  name,  is  her  life 
to  set  it  free  ?  " 

Holmes  said  nothing.  The  coarse  sneer 
could  not  be  answered.  Men  with  pale 
faces  and  heavy  jaws  like  his  do  not  car- 
ry their  religion  on  their  tongue's  end ; 
their  creeds  leave  them  only  in  the  slow 
oozing  life-blood,  false  as  the  creeds  may 
be. 

Knowles  went  on  hotly,  half  to  him- 
self, seizing  on  the  new  idea  fiercely,  as 
men  and  women  do  who  are  yet  groping 
for  the  truth  of  life. 

"  What  is  it  your  Novalis  says  ?  '  The 
true  Shechinah  is  man.'  You  know  no 
higher  God  ?  Pooh !  the  idea  is  old 
enough ;  it  began  with  Eve.  It  works 
slowly.  Holmes.  In  six  thousand  years, 
taking  humanity  as  one,  this  self- exist- 
ent soul  should  have  clothed  itself  with 
a  freer,  royaller  garment  than  poor  Lois's 
body, — or  mine,"  he  added,  bitterly. 


"  It  works  slowly,"  said  the  other,  qui- 
etly. "  Faster  soon,  in  America.  There 
are  yet  many  ills  of  life  for  the  divinity 
witliin  to  conquer." 

"  And  Lois  and  the  swarming  mass 
yonder  in  those  dens  ?  It  is  late  for 
them  to  begin  the  fight?" 

"  Endurance  is  enough  for  them  here. 
Their  religions  teach  them  that  they  could 
not  bear  the  truth.  One  does  not  put  a 
weapon  into  the  hands  of  a  man  dying 
of  the  fetor  and  hunger  of  the  siege." 

"  But  what  will  this  life,  or  the  lives  to 
come,  give  to  you  champions  who  know 
the  truth  ?  " 

"  Nothing  but  victory,"  he  said,  in  a 
low  tone,  looking  away. 

Knowles  looked  at  the  pale  strength 
of  the  iron  face. 

"  God  help  you,  Stephen  ! "  he  broke 
out,  his  shallow  jeering  falling  off.  "  For 
there  is  a  God  higher  than  we.  The  ills 
of  fife  you  mean  to  conquer  will  teach  it 
to  you.  Holmes.  You  '11  find  the  Some- 
thing above  yourself,  if  it  's  only  to  curse 
Him  and  die." 

Holmes  did  not  smile  at  the  old  man's 
heat, —  walked  gravely,  steadily. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  The  old 
man  put  his  hand  gently  on  the  other's 
arm. 

"  Stephen,"  he  hesitated,  "  you  're  a 
stronger  man  than  I.  I  know  what  you 
are  ;  I  've  watched  you  from  a  boy.  But 
you  're  wrong  here.  I  'm  an  old  man. 
There  's  not  much  I  know  in  life, — 
enough  to  madden  me.  But  I  do  know 
there  's  something  stronger,  —  some  God 
outside  of  the  mean  devil  they  call  '  Me.* 
You  '11  learn  it,  boy.  There  's  an  old 
story  of  a  man  like  you  and  the  rest  of 
your  sect,  and  of  the  vile,  mean,  crawling 
things  that  God  sent  to  bring  him  down. 
There  are  such  things  yet.  Mean  pas- 
sions in  your  divine  soul,  low,  selfish  things, 
that  will  get  the  better  of  you,  show  you 
what  you  are.  You  '11  do  all  that  man 
can  do.  But  they  are  coming,  Stephen 
Holmes !  they  're  coming  ! " 

He  stopped,  startled.  For  Holmes  had 
turned  abruptly,  glancing  over  at  the  city 
with  a  strange  wistfulness.    It  was  over 


712 


A  Story  of  To-Day, 


[December, 


in  a  moment.  He  resumed  the  slow, 
controlling  walk  beside  him.  They  went 
on  in  silence  into  town,  and  when  they 
did  speak,  it  was  on  indifferent  subjects, 
not  referring  to  the  last.  The  Doctor's 
heat,  as  it  usually  did,  boiled  out  in  spasms 
on  trifles.  Once  he  stumped  his  toe,  and, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  swore  roundly  about 
it,  just  as  he  would  have  done  in  the 
new  Arcadia,  if  one  of  the  jail-birds  com- 
prising that  colony  had  been  ungrateful 
for  his  advantages.  Philanthropists,  for 
some  curious  reason,  are  not  the  most 
amiable  members  of  small  families. 

He  gave  Holmes  the  roll  of  parchment 
he  had  in  his  pocket,  looking  keenly  at 
him,  as  he  did  so,  but  only  saying,  that,  if 
he  ifteant  to  sign  it,  it  would  be  done  to- 
morrow. As  Holmes  took  it,  they  stop- 
ped at  the  great  door  of  the  factory.  He 
went  in  alone,  Knowles  going  down  the 
street.  One  trifle,  strange  in  its  way,  he 
remembered  afterwards.  Holding  the 
roll  of  paper  in  his  hand  that  would 
make  the  mill  his,  he  went,  in  his  slow, 
grave  way,  down  the  long  passage  to  the 
loom-rooms.  There  was  a  crowd  of  por- 
ters and  firemen  there,  as  usual,  and  he 
thought  one  of  them  hastily  passed  him 
in  the  dark  passage,  hiding  behind  an 
engine.  As  the  shadow  fell  on  him,  his 
teeth  chattered  with  a  chilly  shudder. 
He  smiled,  thinking  how  superstitious 
people  would  say  that  some  one  trod  on 
his  grave  just  then,  or  that  Death  looked 
at  him,  and  went  on.  Afterwards  he 
thought  of  it.  Going  through  the  office, 
the  fat  old  book-keeper.  Huff,  stopped  him 
with  a  story  he  had  been  keeping  for 
him  all  day.  He  liked  to  tell  a  story  to 
Holmes ;  he  could  see  into  a  joke ;  it 
did  a  man  good  to  hear  a  fellow  laugh 
like  that.  Holmes  did  laugh,  for  the  story 
was  a  good  one,  and  stood  a  moment,  then 
went  in,  leaving  the  old  fellow  chuckling 
over  his  desk.  Huff  did  not  know  how, 
lately,  after  every  laugh,  this  man  felt  a 
vague  scorn  of  himself,  as  if  jokes  and 
laughter  belonged  to  a  self  that  ought  to 
have  been  dead  long  ago.  Perhaps,  if 
the  fat  old  book-keeper  had  known  it,  he 
would  have  said  that  the  man  was  better 


than  he  knew.  But  then,  —  poor  Huff! 
He  passed  slowly  through  the  long  alleys 
between  the  great  looms.  Overhead  the 
ceiling  looked  like  a  heavy  maze  of  iron 
cylinders  and  black  swinging  bars  and 
wheels,  all  in  swift,  ponderous  motion. 
It  was  enough  to  make  a  brain  dizzy  with 
the  clanging  thunder  of  the  engines,  the 
whizzing  spindles  of  red  and  yellow,  and 
the  hot  daylight  glaring  over  all.  The 
looms  were  watched  by  women,  most  of 
them  bold,  tawdry  girls  of  fifteen  or  six- 
teen, or  lean-jawed  women  from  the  hills, 
wives  of  the  coal-diggers.  There  was  a 
breathless  odor  of  copperas.  As  he  went 
from  one  room  to  another  up  through  the 
ascending  stories,  he  had  a  vague  sensa- 
tion of  being  followed.  Some  shadow  lurk- 
ed at  times  behind  the  engines,  or  stole  af- 
ter him  in  the  dark  entries.  Were  there 
ghosts,  then,  in  mills  in  broad  daylight  ? 
None  but  the  ghosts  of  Want  and  Hun- 
ger and  Crime,  he  might  have  known,  that 
do  not  wait  for  night  to  walk  our  streets : 
the  ghosts  that  poor  old  Knowles  hoped 
to  lay  forever. 

Holmes  had  a  room  fitted  up  in  the 
mill,  where  he  slept.  He  went  up  to  it 
slowly,  holding  the  paper  tightly  in  one 
hand,  glancing  at  the  operatives,  the  work, 
through  his  furtive  half-shut  eye.  Noth- 
ing escaped  him.  Passing  the  windows, 
he  did  not  once  look  out  at  the  prophetic 
dream  of  beauty  he  had  left  without.  In 
the  mill  he  was  of  the  mill.  Yet  he  went 
slowly,  as  if  he  shrank  from  the  task  wait- 
ing for  him.  Why  should  he  ?  It  was  a 
simple  matter  of  business,  this  transfer  of 
Knowles's  share  in  the  mill  to  himself;  to- 
day he  was  to  decide  whether  he  would 
conclude  the  bargain.  If  any  dark  his- 
tory of  wrong  lay  underneath,  if  this  sim- 
ple decision  of  his  was  to  be  the  strug- 
gle for  life  and  death  with  him,  his  cold, 
firm  face  told  nothing  of  it.  Let  us  be 
just  to  him,  stand  by  him,  if  we  can,  in 
the'  midst  of  his  desolate  home  and  deso- 
late life,  and  look  through  his  cold,  sor- 
rowful eyes  at  the  deed  he  was  going  to 
do.  Dreary  enough  he  looked,  going 
through  the  great  mill,  despite  the  power 
in  his  quiet  face.  A  man  who  had  strength 


1861.] 


A   Story  of  To-Day. 


713 


to  be  alone ;  yet,  I  think,  ■with  all  his 
strength  and  power,  his  mother  could  not 
have  borne  to  look  back  from  the  dead 
that  day,  to  see  her  boy  so  utterly  alone. 
The  day  was  the  crisis  of  his  life,  looked 
forward  to  for  years  ;  he  held  in  his  hand 
a  sure  passport  to  fortune.  Yet  he  thrust 
the  hour  off,  perversely,  trifling  with  idle 
fancies,  pushing  from  him  the  one  ques- 
tion which  all  the  years  past  and  to  come 
had  left  for  this  day  to  decide. 

Some  such  idle  fancy  it  may  have  been 
that  made  the  man  turn  from  the  usual 
way  down  a  narrow  passage  into  which 
opened  doors  from  small  offices.  Marga- 
ret Howth,  he  had  learned  to-day,  was  in 
the  first  one.  He  hesitated  before  he  did 
it,  his  sallow  face  turning  a  trifle  paler; 
then  he  went  on  in  his  hard,  grave  way, 
"wondering  dimly  if  she  remembered  his 
step,  if  she  cared  to  see  him  now.  She 
used  to  know  it,  —  she  was  the  only  one  in 
the  world  who  ever  had  cared  to  know  it, 

—  silly  child  !  Doubtless  she  was  wiser 
now.  He  remembered  he  used  to  think, 
that,  when  this  woman  loved,  it  would  be 
as  he  himself  would  love,  with  a  simple 
trust  which  the  wrong  of  years  could  not 

touch.     And  once  he  had  thought 

Well,  well,  he  was  mistaken.  Poor  Mar- 
garet !  Better  as  it  was.  They  were  noth- 
ing to  each  other.  She  had  put  him  from 
her,  and  he  had  suffered  himself  to  be 
put  away.  Why,  he  would  have  given 
up  every  prospect  of  life,  if  he  had  done 
otherwise !  Yet  he  wondered  bitterly 
if  she  had  thought  him  selfish,  —  if  she 
thought  it  was  money  he  cared  for,  as 
the  others  did.  It  mattered  nothing  what 
they  thought,  but  it  wounded  him  intol- 
erably that  she  should  wrong  him.  Yet, 
with  all  this,  whenever  he  looked  for- 
ward to  death,  it  was  with  the  certainty 
that  he  should  find  her  there  beyond. 
There  would  be  no  secrets  then ;  she 
would  know  then  how  he  had  loved  her 
always.  Loved  her  ?  Yes ;  he  need  not 
hide  it  from  himself,  surely. 

He  was  now  by  the  door  of  the  office ; 

—  she  was  within.  Little  Margaret,  poor 
little  Margaret !  struggling  there  day  af- 
ter day  for  the  old  father  and  mother. 

VOL.   VIII.  46 


What  a  pale,  cold  little  child  she  used 
to  be !  such  a  child !  yet  kindling  at  his 
look  or  touch,  as  if  her  veins  were  filled 
with  subtile  flame.  Her  soul  was — like 
his  own,  he  thought.  He  knew  what  it 
was,  —  he  only.  Even  now  he  glowed 
with  a  man's  triumph  to  know  he  held  the 
secret  life  of  this  woman  bare  in  his  hand. 
No  other  human  power  could  ever  come 
near  her ;  he  was  secure  in  possession. 
She  had  put  him  from  her ;  —  it  was  bet- 
ter for  both,  perhaps.  Their  paths  were 
separate  here ;  for  she  had  some  unreal 
notions  of  duty,  and  he  had  too  much  to 
do  in  the  world  to  clog  himself  with  cares, 
or  to  idle  an  hour  in  the  rare  ecstasy  of 
even  love  like  this. 

He  passed  the  office,  not  pausing  in  his 
slow  step.  Some  sudden  impufse  made 
him  put  his  hand  on  the  door  as  he  brush- 
ed against  it :  just  a  quick,  light  touch ;  but 
it  had  all  the  fierce  passion  of  a  caress. 
He  drew  it  back  as  quickly,  and  went  on, 
wiping  a  clammy  sweat  from  his  face. 

The  room  he  had  fitted  up  for  himself 
was  whitewashed  and  barely  furnished ; 
it  made  one's  bones  ache  to  look  at  the 
iron  bedstead  and  chairs.  Holmes's  nat- 
ural taste  was  more  glowing,  however 
smothered,  than  that  of  any  saffron-robed 
Sybarite.  It  needed  correction,  he  knew, 
and  this  was  the  discipline.  Besides,  he 
had  set  apart  the  coming  three  or  four 
years  of  his  life  to  make  money  in,  enough 
for  the  time  to  come.  He  would  devote 
his  whole  strength  to  that  work,  and  so 
be  sooner  done  with  it.  Money,  or  place, 
or  even  power,  was  nothing  but  means 
to  him  :  other  men  valued  them  because 
of  their  influence  on  others.  As  his  work 
in  the  world  was  only  the  development, 
of  himself,  it  was  different,  of  course. 
What  would  it  matter  to  his  soul  the 
day  after  death,  if  millions  called  his 
name  aloud  in  blame  or  praise  ?  Would, 
he  hear  or  answer  then  ?  What  would 
it  matter  to  him  then,  if  he  had  starved, 
with  them  or  ruled  over  them  ?  People 
talked  of  benevolence.  What  would  it 
matter  to  him  then,  the  misery  or  happir 
ness  of  those  yet  working  in  this  paltry 
life  of  ours  ?    In  so  far  as  the  exercise 


714 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


[December, 


of  kindly  emotions  or  self-denial  develop- 
ed the  higher  part  of  his  nature,  it  was 
to  be  commended ;  as  for  its  effect  on 
others,  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with. 
He  practised  self-denial  constantly  to 
strengthen  the  benevolent  instincts.  That 
very  morning  he  had  given  his  last  dol- 
lar to  Joe  Byers,  a  half-starved  cripple. 
"  Chucked  it  at  me,"  Joe  said,  "  like  as 
he  'd  give  a  bone  to  a  dog,  and  be  damn- 
ed to  him!  Who  thanks  him?"  To 
tell  the  truth,  you  will  find  no  fairer  ex- 
ponent than  this  Stephen  Holmes  of  the 
great  idea  of  American  sociology,  —  that 
the  object  of  life  is  to  grow.  Circumstan- 
ces had  forced  it  on  him,  partly.  Sitting 
now  in  his  room,  where  he  was  counting 
the  cost  of  becoming  a  merchant  prince, 

could  look  back  to  the  time  of  a  boy- 
-uod  passed  in  the  depths  of  ignorance 
and  vice.  He  knew  what  this  Self  with- 
in him  was ;  he  knew  how  it  had  forced 
him  to  grope  his  way  up,  to  give  this 
hungry,  insatiate  soul  air  and  freedom 
and  knowledge.  All  men  around  him 
were  doing  the  same, — thrusting  and  jost- 
ling and  struggling,  up,  up.  It  was  the 
American  motto.  Go  ahead ;'  mothers 
taught  it  to  their  children ;  the  whole  sys- 
tem was  a  scale  of  glittering  prizes.  He  at 
least  saw  the  higher  meaning  of  the  truth ; 
he  had  no  low  ambitions.  To  lift  this 
self  up  into  a  higher  range  of  being  when 
it  had  done  with  the  uses  of  this, — that 
was  his  work.  Self-salvation,  self-eleva- 
tion, —  the  ideas  that  give  birth  to,  and 
destroy  half  of  our  Christianity,  half  of 
our  philanthropy !  Sometimes  sleeping 
instincts  in  the  man  struggled  up  to  as- 
sert a  divinity  more  terrible  than  this 
growing  self-existent  soul  that  he  purified 
and  analyzed  day  by  day:  a  depth  of 
tender  pity  for  outer  pain ;  a  fierce  long- 
ing for  rest,  on  something,  in  something, 
he  cared  not  what.  He  stifled  such  rebel- 
lious promptings, — called  them  morbid. 
He  called  it  morbid,  too,  the  passion  now 
that  chilled  his  strong  blood,  and  wrung 
out  these  clammy  drops  on  his  forehead, 
at  the  mere  thought  of  this  girl  below. 

He  shut  the  door  of  his  room  tightly : 
he  had  no  time  to-day  for  lounging  visitors. 


For  Holmes,  quiet  and  steady,  was  sought 
for,  if  not  popular,  even  in  the  free-and- 
easy  "West ;  one  of  those  men  who  are  un- 
willingly masters  among  men.  Just  and 
mild,  always ;  with  a  peculiar  gift  that 
made  men  talk  their  best  thoughts  to 
him,  knowing  they  would  be  understood  ; 
if  any  core  of  eternal  flint  lay  under  the 
simple,  truthful  manner  of  the  man,  no- 
body saw  it. 

He  laid  the  bill  of  sale  on  the  table ;  it 
was  an  altogether  practical  matter  on 
which  he  sat  in  judgment,  but  he  was  go- 
ing to  do  nothing  rashly.  A  plain  busi- 
ness document :  he  took  Dr.  Knowles's 
share  in  the  factory ;  the  payments  made 
with  short  intervals ;  John  Heme  was 
to  be  his  indorser :  it  needed  only  the 
names  to  make  it  valid.  Plain  enough  ; 
no  hint  there  of  the  tacit  understanding 
that  the  purchase-money  was  a  wedding 
dowry ;  even  between  Heme  and  him- 
self it  never  was  openly  put  into  words. 
If  he  did  not  marry  Miss  Heme,  the  mill 
was  her  father's ;  that  of  course  must  be 
spoken  of,  arranged  to-morrow.  If  he 
took  it,  then  ?  if  he  married  her  ?  Holmes 
had  been  poor,  was  miserably  poor  yet, 
with  the  position  and  habits  of  a  man  of 
refinement.  God  knows  it  was  not  to 
gratify  those  tastes  that  he  clutched  at 
this  money.  All  the  slow  years  of  work 
trailed  up  before  him,  that  were  gone, —  of 
hard,  wearing  work  for  daily  bread,  when 
his  brain  had  been  starving  for  knowl- 
edge, and  his  soul  dulled,  debased  with 
sordid  trading.  Was  this  to  be  always  ? 
Were  these  few  golden  moments  of  life 
to  be  traded  for  the  bread  and  meat  he 
ate  ?  To  eat  and  drink, — was  that  what 
he  was  here  for  ? 

As  he  paced  the  floor  mechanically,  some 
vague  recollection  crossed  his  brain  of  a 
childish  story  of  the  man  standing  where 
the  two  great  roads  of  life  parted.  They 
were  open  before  him  now.  Money,  mon- 
ey,— he  took  the  word  into  his  heart  as  a 
miser  might  do.  With  it,  he  was  free  from 
these  carking  cares  that  were  making  his 
mind  foul  and  muddy.  If  he  had  money ! 
Slow,  cool  visions  of  triumphs  rose  before 
him  outlined  on  the  years  to  come,  prac- 


1861.] 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


715 


tical,  if  Utopian.  Slow  and  sure  successes 
of  science  and  art,  where  his  brain  could 
work,  helpful  and  growing.  Far  off,  yet 
surely  to  come,  —  surely  for  him,  —  a  day 
to  come  when  a  pure  social  system  should 
be  universal,  should  have  thrust  out  its 
fibres  of  light  knittin<j  into  one  the  na- 
tions  of  the  earth,  when  the  lowest  slave 
should  find  its  true  place  and  rightful 
work,  and  stand  up,  knowing  itself  divine. 
"  To  insure  to  every  man  the  freest  devel- 
opment of  his  faculties  " :  he  said  over  the 
hackneyed  dogma  again  and  again,  while 
the  heavy,  hateful  years  of  poverty  rose 
before  him  that  had  trampled  him  down. 
"  To  insure  to  him  the  freest  develop- 
ment," he  did  not  need  to  wait  for  St. 
Simon,  or  the  golden  year,  he  thought 
with  a  dreary  gibe  ;  money  was  enough, 
and  —  Miss  Heme. 

It  was  curious,  that,  when  this  woman, 
whom  he  saw  every  day,  came  up  in 
his  mind,  it  was  always  in  one  posture, 
one  costume.  You  have  noticed  that  pe- 
culiarity in  your  remembrance  of  some 
persons  ?  Perhaps  you  would  find,  if 
you  looked  closely,  that  in  that  look  or 
indelible  gesture  which  your  memory  has 
caught  there  lies  some  subtile  hint  of 
the  tie  between  your  soul  and  theirs. 
Now,  when  Holmes  had  resolved  cool- 
ly to  weigh  this  woman,  brain,  heart, 
and  flesh,  to  know  how  much  of  a  hin- 
drance she  would  be,  he  could  only  see 
her,  with  his  artist's  sense,  as  delicate  a 
bloom  of  coloring  as  eye  could  crave,  in 
one  immovable  posture,  —  as  he  had  seen 
her  once  in  some  masquerade  or  tableau 
vivant.  June,  I  think  it  was,  she  chose 
to  represent  that  evening, —  and  with  her 
usual  success ;  for  no  woman  ever  knew 
more  thoroughly  her  material  of  shape  or 
color,  or  how  to  work  it  up.  Not  an  ill- 
chosen  fancy,  either,  that  of  the  moist, 
warm  month.  Some  tranced  summer's 
day  might  have  drowsed  down  into  such 
a  human  form  by  a  dank  pool,  or  on  the 
thick  grass-crusted  meadows.  There  was 
the  full  contour  of  the  limbs  hid  under 
warm  green  folds,  the  white  flesh  that 
glowed  when  you  touched  it  as  if  some 
smothered  heat  lay  beneath,  the  sleeping 


face,  the  amber  hair  uncoiled  in  a  lan- 
guid quiet,  while  yellow  jasmines  deep- 
ened its  hue  into  molten  sunshine,  and  a 
great  tiger-lily  laid  its  sultry  head  on  her 
breast.  June  ?  Could  June  become  in- 
carnate with  higher  poetic  meaning  than 
that  which  this  woman  gave  it  ?  Mr. 
Kitts,  the  artist  I  told  you  of,  thought 
not,  and  fell  in  love  with  June  and  her 
on  the  spot,  which  passion  became  quite 
unbearable  after  she  had  graciously  per- 
mitted him  to  sketch  her,  —  for  the  ben- 
efit of  Art.  Three  medical  students  and 
one  attorney  Miss  Heme  numbered  as 
having  been  driven  into  a  state  of  dogged 
despair  on  that  triumphal  occasion.  Mr. 
Holmes  may  have  quarrelled  with  the 
rendering,  doubting  to  himself  if  her  lip 
were  not  too  thick,  her  eye  too  brassy  and 
pale  a  blue  for  the  queen  of  months; 
though  I  do  not  believe  he  thought  at  all 
about  it.  Yet  the  picture  clung  to  his 
memory. 

As  he  slowly  paced  the  room  to-day, 
thinking  of  this  woman  as  his  wife,  light 
blue  eyes  and  yellow  hair  and  the  un- 
clean sweetness  of  jasmine -flowers  mix- 
ed with  the  hot  sunshine  and  smells  of 
the  mill.  He  could  think  of  her  in  no 
other  light.  He  might  have  done  so ;  for 
the  poor  girl  had  her  other  sides  for  view. 
She  had  one  of  those  sharp,  tawdry  intel- 
lects whose  possessors  are  always  reckon- 
ed "  brilliant  women,  fine  talkers."  She 
was  (aside  from  the  necessary  sarcasm 
to  keep  up  this  reputation)  a  good-hu- 
mored soul  enough,  —  when  no  one  stood 
in  her  way.  But  if  her  shallow  virtues  or 
vices  were  palpable  at  all  to  him  to-day, 
they  became  one  with  the  torpid  beauty 
of  the  oppressive  summer  day,  and  weigh- 
ed on  him  alike  with  a  vague  disgust. 
The  woman  luxuriated  in  perfume  ;  some 
heavy  odor  always  hung  about  her. 
Holmes,  thinking  of  her  now,  fancied  he 
felt  it  stifling  the  air,  and  opened  the 
window  for  breath.  Patchouli  or  cop- 
peras, —  what  was  the  difference  ?  The 
mill  and  his  future  wife  came  to  him  to- 
gether;  it  was  scarcely  his  fault,  if  he 
thought  of  them  as  one,  or  muttered, 
"Damnable  clog!"  as  he  sat  down  to 


716 


A  Story  of  To-Day. 


[December, 


write,  his  cold  eye  growing  colder.  But 
Le  did  not  argue  the  question  any  longer ; 
decision  had  come  keenly  in  one  moment, 
fixed,  unalterable. 

If,  through  the  long  day,  the  starved 
heart  of  the  man  called  feebly  for  its  nat- 
ural food,  he  called  it  a  paltry  weakness ; 
or  if  the  old  thought  of  the  quiet,  pure  lit- 
tle girl  in  the  office  below  came  back  to 
him,  he  —  he  wished  her  well,  he  hoped  she 
might  succeed  in  her  work,  he  would  al- 
ways be  ready  to  lend  her  a  helping  hand. 
So  many  years  (he  was  ashamed  to  think 
how  many)  he  had  built  the  thought 
of  this  girl  as  his  wife  into  the  future, 
put  his  soul's  strength  into  the  hope,  as 
if  love  and  the  homely  duties  of  husband 
and  father  were  what  life  was  given  for  ! 
A  boyish  fancy,  he  thought.  He  had 
not  learned  then  that  all  dreams  must 
yield  to  self-reverence  and  self-growth. 
As  for  taking  up  this  life  of  poverty  and 
soul-starvation  for  the  sake  of  a  little  love, 
it  would  be  an  ignoble  martyrdom,  the 
sacrifice  of  a  grand  unmeasured  Rfe  to  a 
shallow  pleasure.  He  was  no  longer  a 
young  man  now ;  he  had  no  time  to  waste. 
Poor  Margaret !  he  wondered  if  it  hurt 
her  now. 

He  left  the  writing  in  the  slow,  quiet 
way  natural  to  him,  and  after  a  while 
stooped  to  pat  the  dog  softly,  who  was 
trying  to  lick  his  hand,  —  with  the  hard 
fingers  shaking  a  little,  and  a  smothered 
fierceness  in  the  half-closed  eye,  like  a 
man  who  is  tortured  and  alone. 

There  is  a  miserable  drama  acted  in 
other  homes  than  the  Tuileries,  when 
men  have  found  a  woman's  heart  in  their 
way  to  success,  and  trampled  it  down 
under  an  iron  heel.  Men  like  Napoleon 
must  live  out  the  law  of  their  natures,  I 
suppose, —  on  a  throne  or  in  a  mill. 

So  many  trifles  that  day  roused  the 
under-current  of  old  thoughts  and  old 
hopes  that  taunted  him,  —  trifles,  too,  that 
he  would  not  have  heeded  at  another 
time.  Pike  came  in  on  business,  a  bunch 
of  bills  in  his  hand.  A  wily,  keen  eye 
he  had,  looking  over  them,  —  a  lean  face, 
emphasized  only  by  cunning.  No  won- 
der Dr.  Knowles  cursed  him  for  a  "  slip- 


pery customer,"  and  was  cheated  by  him 
the  next  hour.  While  he  and  Holmes 
were  counting  out  the  bills,  a  httle  white- 
headed  girl  crept  shyly  in  at  the  door, 
and  came  up  to  the  table, —  oddly  dress- 
ed, in  an  old-fashioned  frock  fastened 
with  great  horn  buttons,  and  with  an  old- 
fashioned  anxious  pair  of  eyes,  the  color 
of  blue  Delft.  Holmes  smoothed  her  hair, 
as  she  stood  beside  them ;  for  he  never 
could  help  caressing  children  or  dogs. 
Pike  looked  up  sharply,— then  half  smil- 
ed, as  he  went  on  counting. 

"Ninety,  ninety -five,  and  one  hun- 
dred, all  right,"  —  tying  a  bit  of  tape 
about  the  papers.  "My  Sophy,  Mr. 
Holmes.  Good  girl,  Sophy  is.  Bring 
her  up  to  the  mill  sometimes,"  he  said, 
apologetically,  "  on  'count  of  not  leaving 
her  alone.  She  gets  lonesome  at  th' 
house." 

Holmes  glanced  at  Pike's  felt  hat  lying 
on  the  table :  there  was  a  rusty  strip  of 
crape  on  it. 

"  Yes,"  said  Pike,  in  a  lower  tone, 
"  I  'm  father  and  mother,  both,  to  Sophy 
now." 

"  I  had  not  heard,"  said  Holmes,  kind- 
ly.    "  How  about  the  boys,  now  ?  " 

"  Pete  and  John  's  both  gone  West," 
the  man  said,  his  eyes  kindling  eagerly. 
"  'S  fine  boys  as  ever  turned  out  of  In- 
diana. Good  eddications  I  give  'em 
both.  I  've  felt  the  want  of  that  all  my 
life.  Good  eddications.  Says  I,  'Now, 
boys,  you  've  got  your  fortunes,  nothing 
to  hinder  your  bein'  President.  Let  's 
see  what  stuff  *s  in  ye,'  says  I.  So  they 
're  doin'  well.  Wrote  fur  me  to  come 
out  in  the  fall.  But  I  'd  rather  scratch 
on,  and  gather  up  a  little  for  Sophy  here, 
before  I  stop  work." 

He  patted  Sophy's  tanned  httle  hand 
on  the  table,  as  if  beating  some  soft  tune. 
Holmes  folded  up  the  bills.  Even  this 
man  could  spare  time  out  of  his  hard, 
stingy  hfe  to  love,  and  be  loved,  and  to 
be  generous  !  But  then  he  had  no  higher 
aim,  knew  nothing  better. 

"  Well,"  said  Pike,  rising,  "  in  case  you 
take  th'  mill,  Mr.  Holmes,  I  hope  we  '11 
be  agreeable.    I  '11  strive  to  do  my  best," 


1861.] 


A  Story  of  To-Bay. 


717 


—  in  the  old  fawning  manner,  to  which 
Hohnes  nodded  a  curt  reply. 

The  man  stopped  for  Sophy  to  gather 
up  her  bits  of  broken  China  with  which 
she  was  making  a  tea-party  on  the  table, 
and  went  down-stairs. 

Towards  evening  Holmes  went  out,  — 
not  going  through  the  narrow  passage 
that  led  to  the  offices,  but  avoiding  it 
by  a  circuitous  route.  If  it  cost  him 
any  pain  to  think  why  he  did  it,  he 
showed  none  in  his  calm,  observant 
face.  Buttoning  up  his  coat  as  he 
went:  the  October  sunset  looked  as  if 
it  ought  to  be  warm,  but  he  was  death- 
ly cold.  On  the  street  the  young  doctor 
beset  him  again  with  bows  and  news : 
Cox  was  his  name,  I  believe ;  the  one, 
you  remember,  who  had  such  a  Talley- 
rand nose  for  ferreting  out  successful 
men.  He  had  to  bear  with  him  but  for 
a  few  moments,  however.  They  met  a 
crowd  of  workmen  at  the  corner,  one  of 
whom,  an  old  man  freshly  washed,  with 
honest  eyes  looking  out  of  horn  specta- 
cles, waited  for  them  by  a  fire-plug.  It 
was  Polston,  the  .coal- digger,  —  an  ac- 
quaintance, a  far-off  kinsman  of  Holmes, 
in  fact. 

"  Curious  person  making  signs  to  you, 
yonder,"  said  Cox ;  "  hand,  I  presume." 

"  My  cousin  Polston.  If  you  do  not 
know  him,  you  '11  excuse  me  ?  " 

Cox  sniffed  the  air  down  the  street, 

and  twirled  his  rattan,  as  he  went.     The 

coal-digger  was  abrupt  and  distant  in  his 

greeting,  going  straight  to  business. 

"  I  will  keep  yoh  only  a  minute,  Mr. 

Holmes" 

"  Stephen,"  corrected  Holmes. 
The  old  man's  face  warmed. 
"  Stephen,  then,"  holding  out  his  hand, 
"  sence  old  times  dawn't  shame  yoh,  Ste- 
phen. That 's  hearty,  now.  It 's  only  a 
wured  I  want,  but  it 's  immediate.  Con- 
cernin'  Joe  Yare,  —  Lois's  father,  yoh 
know  ?     He  's  back." 

"  Back  ?  I  saw  him  to-day,  following 
me  in  the  mill.  His  hair  is  gray  ?  I  think 
it  was  he." 

"  No  doubt.  Yes,  he  's  aged  fast, 
down  in  the  lock-up;  goin'  fast  to  the 


end.     Feeble,  pore-like.    It 's  a  bad  life, 
Joe  Yare's  ;  I  wish  'n'  't  would  be  better 

to  the  end  " 

He  stopped  with  a  wistful  look  at 
Holmes,  who  stood  outwardly  attentive, 
but  with  little  thought  to  waste  on  Joe 
Yare.  The  old  coal-digger  drummed  on 
the  fire-plug  uneasily. 

"  Myself,  't  was  for  Lois's  sake  I  thowt 
on  it.  To  speak  plain,  —  yoh  '11  mind 
that  Stokes  affair,  th'  note  Yare  brought  ? 
Yes  ?  Ther'  's  none  knows  o'  that  but 
yoh  an'  me.  He  's  safe,  Yare  is,  only  fur 
yoh  an'  me.  Yoh  speak  the  wured  an* 
back  he  goes  to  the  lock-up.  Fur  life. 
D'  yoh  see  ?  " 
"  I  see." 

"  He  's  tryin'  to  do  right,  Yare  is." 
The  old  man  went  on,  trying  not  to 
be  eager,  and  watching  Holmes's  face. 
"He  's  tryin'.      Sendin*  him  back  — 
yoh  know  how  that  '11  end.     Seems  like 
as  we  'd  his  soul  in  our  hands.     S'pose, 
—  what  d'  yoh  think,  if  we  give  him  a 
chance  ?     It  's  yoh  he  fears.     I  see  him 
a-watchin'  yoh ;  what  d'  yoh  think,  if  we 
give  him  a  chance  ?  **  catching  Holmes's 
sleeve.  "  He 's  old,  an'  he 's  tryin'.  Heh  ?  " 
Holmes  smiled. 

"  We  did  n't  make  the  lav  he  broke. 
Justice  before  mercy.  Have  n't  I  heard 
you  talk  to  Sam  in  that  way,  long  ago  ?" 
The  old  man  loosened  his  hold  of 
Holmes's  arm,  looked  up  and  down  the 
street,  uncertain,  disappointed. 

"The  law.  Yes.  That's  right!  Yoh 're 
a  just  man,  Stephen  Holmes." 

"And  yet?" 

"  Yes.  I  dun'no'.  Law  's  right,  but 
Yare  's  had  a  bad  chance,  an'  he  's  tryin'. 
An*  we  *re  sendin'  him  to  hell.  Some- 
thin'  *s  wrong.  But  I  think  yoh  're  a  just 
man,"  looking  keenly  in  Holmes's  face. 

"  A  hard  one,  people  say,"  said  Holmes, 
after  a  pause,  as  they  walked  on. 

He  had  spoken  half  to  himself,  and  re- 
ceived  no  answer.  Some  blacker  shadow 
troubled  him  than  old  Yare's  fate. 

"  My  mother  was  a  hard  woman,  -^ 
you  knew  her?"  he  said,  abruptly. 

"  She  was  just,  like  yoh.  She  was  one 
o'  th'  elect,  she  said.    Mercy  's  fur  them, 


718 


Health  in  the  Hospital. 


[December, 


—  an'  outside,  justice.  It  's  a  narrer 
showin',  I  'm  thinkinV 

"  My  father  was  outside,"  said  Holmes, 
some  old  bitterness  rising  up  in  his  tone, 
his  gray  eye  lighting  with  some  unre- 
venged  wrong. 

Polston  did  not  speak  for  a  moment. 

"  Dunnot  bear  malice  agin  her.  They  're 
dead,  now.  It  was  n't  left  fur  her  to  judge 
him  out  yonder.  Yoh  've  yer  father's 
eyes,  Stephen,  'times.  Hungry,  pitiful, 
like  women's.  His  got  desper't'  't  th' 
last.  Drunk  hard, — died  of 't,  yoh  know. 
But  she  killed  him,  —  th'  sin  was  writ 
down  fur  her.  Never  was  a  boy  I  loved 
like  him,  when  we  was  boys." 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

*'  Yoh  're  like  yer  mother,"  said  Polston, 
striving  for  a  lighter  tone.  "Here," — 
motioning  to  the  heavy  iron  jaws.  "  She 
never  —  let  go.  Somehow,  too,  she  'd 
the  law  on  her  side  in  outward  show- 
in',  an'  th'  right.  But  I  hated  religion, 
knowin'  her.  Well,  ther'  's  a  day  of  mak- 
in'  things  clear,  comin'." 

They  had  reached  the  corner  now, 
and  Polston  turned  down  the  lane. 

"  Yoh  '11  think  o'  Yare's  case  ?  "  he 
said. 

"  Yes.  •But  how  can  I  help  it," 
Holmes  said,  lightly,  "  if  I  am  like  my 
mother  here  ?  " —  putting  his  hand  to  his 
mouth. 

"  God  help  US,  how  can  yoh  ?  It  's 
harrd  to  think  father  and  mother  leave 


their  souls  fightin'  in  their  childern,  cos 
th'  love  was  wantin'  to  make  them  one 
here." 

Something  glittered  along  the  street  as 
he  spoke  :  the  silver  mountings  of  a  low- 
hung  phaeton  drawn  by  a  pair  of  Mex- 
ican ponies.  One  or  two  gentlemen  on 
horseback  were  alongside,  attendant  on  a 
lady  within.  She  turned  her  fair  face, 
and  pale,  greedy  eyes,  as  she  passed,  and 
lifted  her  hand  languidly  in  recognition 
of  Holmes.     Polston's  face  colored. 

"I  've  heered,"  he  said,  holding  out 
his  grimy  hand.  "  I  wish  yoh  well, 
Stephen,  boy.  So  *11  the  old  'oman. 
Yoh  '11  come  an'  see  us,  soon  ?  Ye  'r'  look- 
in'  fagged,  an'  yer  eyes  is  gettin'  more  like 
yer  father's.  I  'm  glad  things  is  takin' 
a  good  turn  with  yoh ;  an'  yoh  '11  never 
be  like  him,  starvin'  fur  th'  kind  wured, 
an'  havin'  to  die  without  it.  I  'm  glad 
yoh  've  got  true  love.  She  'd  a  fair  face, 
I  think.     I  wish  yoh  well,  Stephen." 

Holmes  shook  the  grimy  hand,  and  then 
stood  a  moment  looking  back  to  the  mill, 
from  which  the  hands  were  just  coming, 
and  then  down  at  the  phaeton  moving 
idly  down  the  road.  How  cold  it  was 
growing  !  People  passing  by  had  a  sick- 
ly look,  as  if  they  were  struck  by  the 
plague.  He  pushed  the  damp  hair  back, 
wiping  his  forehead,  with  another  glance 
at  the  mill- women  coming  out  of  the  gate, 
and  then  followed  the  phaeton  down  the 
hill. 


HEALTH   IN  THE    HOSPITAL. 


In  preparing  to  do  the  duty  of  society 
towards  the  wounded  or  sick  soldier,  the 
first  consideration  is.  What  is  a  Military 
Hospital  ?  No  two  nations  seem  to  have 
answered  this  question  in  the  same  way ; 
yet  it  is  a  point  of  the  first  importance  to 
them  all. 

When  England  went  to  war  last  time, 
after  a  peace  of  forty  years,  the  only  idea 
in  the  minds  of  her  military  surgeons  was 


of  Regimental  Hospitals.  There  was  to 
be  a  place  provided  as  an  infirmary  for  a 
certain  number  of  soldiers;  a  certain  num- 
ber of  orderlies  were  to  be  appointed  as 
nurses  ;  and  the  regimental  doctor  and 
hospital-sergeant  were  to  have  the  charge 
of  the  inmates.  In  each  of  these  Regi- 
mental Hospitals  there  might  be  patients 
ill  of  a  great  variety  of  disorders,  from 
the  gravest  to  the  lightest,  all  to  be  treat- 


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